True Face: The Beautiful Crime
by I've got Rhythm in my Soul
Summary: Though Oliver Queen is the reigning champion of the man with two faces, it's Felicity Smoak who knows the true crime of the masks they wear. It's of a particular beauty. One Mr Queen begins to grasp as he hounds the criminals in the city of Starling. But he moves in sync with an established shadow. ...You'll understand eventual
1. Chapter 1

**Arrow**

True Face: The Beautiful Crime

 **The Beginning…**

 _In each of us there lives a side that hides. Our shadow selves._

 _Figuratively, we all have masks. And we're forced to wear them; whether they're different shades, shapes or sizes we all have them to varying degrees. The face we let other people see and the face we keep to ourselves, the part of us that surface's when we're alone. Shrouded in dark, abandoned in the light. It doesn't matter. It's the part that we entrust only to ourselves._

 _Sometimes, when we're brave enough, we let others see the real us._

 _Our true face._

 _But there are times… there are people whose real 'self' is so opposing to the face they share that they can't possibly reveal even a glimpse of their inner nature to the world, to their family and friends._

 _Because it would scare them. Confuse them. Ultimately drive them off. They would feel betrayed. A skewed perspective to say the least._

 _And a prime example of equitability in an unjust world._

 _Where the familiar becomes the unrecognizable. Then we learn that this hidden facet of our souls could only ever exist in a harsh world. By_ god _, do we learn, that_ that _world already exists. And that what is 'acceptable' is only measured in terms of a majority opinion._

 _There are some masks that don't even know they are being worn. And there are some masks that are misunderstood even by their owners, just as there some faces that are the real truth and not the thinly cloaked, socially acceptable veil. A disguise disguised: a manipulation._

 _But how do we tell which is the 'real'?_

 **MIT, University Campus, 2007**

Felicity Smoak wasn't a hopeless dreamer: she'd never allow herself to become one. She knew that she was a mass of contradictions, weighing both positive and negative, and she didn't know just who or what she was.

It seemed she was always running from something. Abandonment of herself and her mother by her father. Her never failing ability to rouse unending arguments against said mother, on a daily basis – so much so in fact that she fled her home at the earliest opportunity; running to an organised training facility north of Vegas. She had been just 15 years of age. Little more than two years later, for reasons better left untold (for now) she ran towards her new homeland: MIT.

Now at plus 18, with a degree and the sweet promise of a Master's under her belt in the next eighteen months she still didn't know who Felicity Smoak truly was. Her current face? A Goth girl with purple streaks in her currently black hair.

In her head and in her heart she knew she'd alter again… and again… before finding her niche. Her place in the world. This was another phase, one in which she allowed herself to drown in, to become this new Felicity Smoak. It got her a boyfriend who she loved dearly and completely. It gave her a sense of direction. It allowed her to access other areas of her moral compass when her wisdom and knowledge of the world, which was slowly lacking, came up too short and too tightly bound to allow her move freely.

It allowed her ignore the whispers in her head, the chains of the unfulfilled, the unacknowledged. The wasted and terrified.

She thinks she's happy here. And she is. She will be. For a while at least before the storm comes in, chasing her away to some new unknown. Our ghosts follow us everywhere. She's slowly becoming an expert.

 **Starling City, Queen's Dock 2007**

Sauntering down the long boardwalk towards the 'Queen's Gambit', his father's prized yacht, it took Oliver Queen a moment before he faltered, coming up short. There, stood at the end of the dock with his dad was his _mom_. Ah.

 _Shit._

Pressing his lips together with a grimace, just _knowing_ what her reaction would be to seeing him there, he watched as what was _definitely_ displeasure spread across her features at her husband's future leave of absence. Whatever they were discussing neither adult was backing down. As always.

He winced. The mental picture of the face he knows she'll pull when she finds out that he will _also_ be leaving with his dad didn't make it any better. He'd hoped to hop on board without anyone but his father noticing as his  companion sneaked around back. But it couldn't be helped. He really needed an escape option.

You see…

…Life could be so sweet.

 _If_ you were young, beyond rich and eligible, handsome, with a winning-charming smile and a modicum of cunning, the world could be your oyster. And Oliver was very much a 'live for the moment kind of guy': the type who takes part in all that feels good; screw the consequences!

Despite knowing that he was all these incredible things and could be so much more, in time, because he was still quite young and had his whole life ahead of him, he also knew, deep down, _way_ deep down… that he was God's answer to _'worthless'_. It was a small voice in his psyche that he kept quite quiet and smothered with his egoism.

He had everything he could ever want but didn't know what to do with _any_ of it.

So he played. And why not, eh? The endless amount of money sent to his bank account, his trust fund and credit cards, per day, was enough to give every member of a working class family angina. So he squandered it, tossed it about, threw it into parties, girls, four different colleges and frivolous, nefarious activities that could have, should have, ended with his ass hauled into a jail cell (but didn't-his father's endless pockets came in handy from time to time).

Being the son of Robert Queen, the CEO of the multi-million dollar conglomerate, Queen Enterprises, definitely had its advantages. And he had skills that he was quite proud of. He knew he was appealing; handsome, sexy even, at least according to the scores of women he'd wooed and royally screwed. He was an adept engineer, good with his hands – _that's what she said_ \- and half decent navigator… so accompanying his father on a cruise seemed like the obvious choice right?

Except it wasn't.

He was running. Away from _Laurel_.

From Laurel and her 'expectations', the ones regarding their _relationship_ , the ones outlining his commitments to the letter because that's what couples _in love_ did for one another. They made _promises_ , a word that inevitably made his insides tense and writhe. They moved in with each other. They tried to build a life with the other…

 _Hell no._

It may have scared him to death but it was the feeling of being slowly trapped that had him moving towards freedom. He was nowhere near ready for any of that. He didn't _want_ it.

Of course not. Why would anyone want that kind of responsibility, that kind of weight, right? His recent _scare,_ with a girl he figured he'd never see again in this life, just hit the nail home for him that settling down with laurel Lance _now_ was a **bad idea**. Full stop. She wasn't the first girl he'd fooled around with since he'd shacked up with laurel but there was a difference between harmless pleasure and 'BABY'.

He wanted to 'play', to live, to have some fun before his dutiful ascendance towards the head of the family business. It's what his father had in store for him: another decorative trapping. His father saw him becoming a greater businessman than Robert himself already was. How would that even be possible? It was laughable to Oliver. Laurel wanted to start all that _yesterday_.

He was only 22 years old; it seemed pretty much logical to him to want to go for a cruise as a way to deflect responsibility. I mean, why not, right? What was the point in being responsible?

So, seeing Laurel's younger sister, Sara, and her obvious infatuation just forced the nail home for him. He wasn't ready, nor was he straight laced like Laurel. But _Sara_ … like so many other girls he'd known, Sara more than up for a little joy riding, for breaking the rules one stepping stone at a time. She'd tried drugs, been there, done that and probably following his party habits and exploits to a 'T' which _absolutely_ helped his ego trip. Drinking and fast driving were far behind both of them. Even the more kinky and racy aspects to sexual play could never be explored with Laurel. But Sara had more than made it obvious how very okay she could be with that. So knowingly betraying her sister to cheat with Oliver Queen, her obvious crush? It wouldn't take much at all. And he wouldn't deny how he'd often wondered how it would be with the girl. Sara looked at him in a way that Laurel never had. With Laurel there was love and indulgent affection in her eyes but there was also expectation and for the past few months he'd been greeted with a flash of those future dreams of hers just visible in her brown orbs. Dreams with him and the white picket fence deal. Sara stared at him with pure lust and adoration for the man he was. A sure 'take me; I'm yours'. As it stood, she viewed him as pretty close to perfect.

 _Well, who says I'm not?_

He knew she'd already realised that a long term relationship was never in the cards. They'd fooling around for a few weeks now but they'd never once talked about the future, thank _God_. This cruise was all about _fishing_. To explore and see if they each fit together. And if not? Hey, a good time was a good time. What happens on the cruise stays on the cruise.

 **Starling City Airport, 2007**

Returning home hadn't been with fanfare or with fireworks, with tears or with kisses…

It had been to the smug grin on his kid brother's face.

 _Great._

"You look like crap." Andy Diggle's first words, ladies and gentlemen, said to John after over a year of him being incommunicado in Afghanistan.

Giving him the usual acerbic look, his face tightening with mock consternation, John Diggle shook his head, his brown eyes trained on his duplicates. "Thanks for that. Good to see you too."

"Mm hm. Got you a job." Was the immediate reply and John's eyebrows raised to his hairline - which albeit was barely existent. "Now that you're state side I know that lazing about isn't your strong suit."

A nod. "No it is _not_."

"Couldn't tempt you to a few weeks of procrastination?" Andy offered after a moment's pause.

He shook his head. "No. I need something to take my mind of things."

"…Right." John heard his brother sigh as he bent to pick up his bag. On turning he was rewarded to his arms being filled with little brother's littler form.

"Welcome back bro."

John let out a breath. "Thanks man." They let go of each other. "Anything happen while I was away?"

"Not much." Together they moved for the gates and when they got past the ticket barrier Andy spoke again, this time without breaking. "Since Queen's Industrial Shipping Factory closed down there's been a wave of unsolicited vandalism in the Glades, China's influence in regards to black market trade has increased and Carly has forbidden herself extracurricular activities at night until the crime rate drops again."

A frown dampened the light in John's face. "It's that serious."

But Andy didn't sound so concerned about it. "Nah, it'll blow over. Some other rich big-wig will open some other employment filled factory or store in the Glades and it'll all be over. Plus the cops are all over it."

"You sure? The Glades were already taking a turn for the worst _before_ I left."

A noise filled with derision sounded out from his left. "I'd say it's impossible for it to get any worse."

Oh but it could. It really could. And it would.

It _does_.

 **Starling City, Queen's Dock, 2007**

When Laurel Lance dreamed, she dreamed BIG.

Her dreams absolutely and always included two things: her future career and her future husband. The first, because in order of priorities it was the chief concern in her agenda, in her list of 'to do's' and it was still up for grabs. It wasn't that she was insecure; she _would_ be a lawyer, she knew this. But what type of lawyer and in what firm, in which country was still up for debate. Nor was she insecure about her feelings for Ollie Queen.

The love of her life.

For she did love him. There wasn't a day where she didn't wonder about him, were she didn't fantasize about their possibilities, were she didn't picture them both in their expensive Armani or Dolce or Freeman or Klein suits as he ran his father's company and she stood at the head of the DA syndicate where her father would look at her with more pride than ever. No, she wasn't ashamed to admit that this picture pulled at her heart strings: ten years down the line, both of them career people, happily married, and absolutely _no_ children, at least not for the foreseeable future…

Just as she wasn't ashamed to admit that she also loved the man who he is now. Each state of self was a phase; they would eventually pass, clearing the way free for the stronger sense of self. The player that he was, this billionaire exhibitionist – literal in every sense of the term – and all around bad boy that did things for her body and mind that she would never speak of in public, wouldn't last. It was temporary.

The proof? Ollie leaving with his father on the Queen's Gambit for a business trip to China was evidence that he was starting to think more responsibly about his future and she couldn't be more proud of him. Of _them_.

 _And_ they would soon be moving in together.

It shouldn't take them long at all: with her contacts and his money it would be a breeze finding an apartment. A place where they could come home to as they worked steadily up the corporate ladder.

Being with Oliver made all those cheesy love songs make sense. It was a dream.

For this she could ignore her sister's crazy crush on her boyfriend. Future Fiancé. Sara just didn't understand romance, or love, or passion. She'd known about the infatuation for years: Sara had been besotted with Ollie from day 1, since she was fourteen and he sixteen. Now, at just twenty? Sara wasn't oblivious to the world: in many ways she lived a little too much for Laurel's taste so, no, she wasn't ignorant. But she _was_ naive.

Sara thought that Ollie could be swayed with a flutter of her lashes and a flirtatious grin. Underneath the persona her boyfriend always gave off, Laurel knew that Ollie was a man of deeper waters. That's why he'd chosen her after all. Like minded and all that.

And Sara would just never understand that.

Her younger sister had never gotten over that one night, when she'd snuck out to Ollie's party. Laurel had been there too: for once not caught up in her studies. She'd thought nothing of it… until she'd seen Sara practically throw herself at Ollie, with a shot in one hand and a lust filled gaze and had immediately told her dad. This was before she and Ollie had started dating. Admittedly she'd be anxious. Knowing Sara's promiscuous ways, she hadn't wanted anything to happen between her and Ollie that would only leave Sara broken hearted the next day. Even if that was just what she told herself. That it was a total coincidence that she and Ollie had ended up dating during Sara's grounding, the worst her dad had ever given her.

Ollie wasn't meant for Sara. And one day Sara would meet the man who was meant for her; a strong, kind man who would love her despite everything - Laurel wholeheartedly believed this. Her perceptiveness rarely ran her astray.

Standing on the docks she glimpsed Ollie now, coming towards her.

He smirked and waved at her and everything inside her chest turned to goo. He was talking to someone on the phone, probably Tommy, voice too low to hear but Laurel could only concentrate on making sure he remembered her during his time away. When he came back she'd demonstrate all the ways she missed him before showing him the tiny puppy she wanted to adopt.

It was a ridiculously cute picture, the image of him walking a dog with her.

Just as the idea of giving him her photo was sickeningly cute, making her question her choice, but she'd seen couples do this in the movies. War heroes and soldiers leaving home with their girls gifting them with mementoes. It was hopelessly romantic and she couldn't get enough of that stuff. Pearl harbour was one of her all-time favourite movies.

 **Starling City, Queen's Dock, 2007**

Part of Sara couldn't believe she was about to do this.

But she was in love and she had to do what she felt was right. Her mother had understood this.

Huddled in the shaft between the Queen's warehouse and an old tuck shop, feeling high as a kite and giddy she waited for the all clear from Ollie.

Who was currently _dealing_ with Laurel. Her sister.

It should bother more, knowing what she was about to do, what she'd already pictured. Cheating with Ollie, though technically Sara had no one to cheat on.

Ollie's character wasn't heroic or gallant. He was a player, a cheater and sexy as hell. And Sara knew that he should be the last person she fell for. But she had anyway. She'd fallen for his smirk, which could be sweet when he relaxed, for his pretty blue eyes just a touch lighter than her own and for how they sharpened when he was thinking about her naked, for his fair hair which gave him the look of a surfer… _a surfer,_ god _, so sexy with his athletes body_ … that she very much appreciated and for his stamina… _mhmm_ …something she couldn't ignore. She knew that she, herself, was just as disreputable as he. They were perfect for each other right? They could understand the darker side of each other. Guys liked naughty and nice.

But then Laurel had sunk her nails into him first.

Her sister had _know_ n, she'd seen it in her face that night before her first week of college, when she'd called their dad on her and had gotten her grounded. Grounded for so long that by the time she'd been released from what felt like captivity Laurel and Ollie were officially a 'thing'. And Laurel hadn't had the decency to tell her to her face; Sara had found out through friends who now pitied her for fancying the college bad boy who had definitely screwed her sister by then. He fucked girls, he didn't _wait_ for them.

But she'd wanted that. She'd wanted the sex and the sensual haze of drugs and _him_ and parties and _want want want_ …

Eventually she'd tried to forgive and forget. Going off to college had been a way to do that. But a party she'd gone to just a couple of months ago had totally torn that asunder. He'd been there. Ollie Queen, taking shot after shot as he stood there flirting with every girl he chose. Flirting with _her_ after he'd seen her and made a beeline to where she was dancing.

 _He'd wanted me._

And all those feelings she hadn't buried burned strong in her young heart. This wasn't just a crush; she was head over heels in love. She'd fallen helplessly with every touch, every chuckle, every delicious swirl of his hips, with every text and breath… she was all in.

As a last ditch attempt to save whatever morality she possessed about her fidelity, she'd tried to talk to Laurel about his reputation for sleeping around but as usual she'd had her words twisted against her, her sister simply thinking she was deliberately being a bitch instead of warning her about the things she'd seen in her partner. The same things she saw in the mirror daily.

The truth? Sara knew Ollie loved Laurel. Sure, he slept around… but Laurel was always the one he returned home to, which told Sara a thing or two about him. Laurel was a dream and Ollie didn't know what he wanted. In many ways he was still too young to know. He was under pressure at all sides: his family in regards to the family business and his education, from Laurel who wanted everything from him but didn't try to see past the image he constantly showed her, from Tommy who was never without his wing man…

Sara didn't want anything from him. Well she did. She wanted his _attention_. And his time. To show him that there may be alternatives for him, other than Laurel, where he didn't have to try to build a future, where his education and status meant little, where he could just be… Ollie. The rich, bad boy heir with a like for drugs and alcohol and a tendency for slacking off.

But Ollie was also very smart. She could have listened to him talk economics and whatever all day. He was talented and gifted and _perfect_ for her. In time he'd grow into whatever he was supposed to become and maybe he'd grow in to _her_ too. They could do it together. They didn't need to be better people. He already was better. He was _Ollie_. _Mine_.

And if Laurel ever found out about this…

Her dad would royally kill her. But then maybe Laurel would learn that trying to force something to happen sometimes had the opposing effect. She should have just left Ollie alone. For Sara. It wasn't as if she wanted to hurt Laurel… but she'd been hurt first by her older sister. Weren't older sisters supposed to protect and nourish their siblings? She knew that this boat trip would have always happened one way or another. Laurel had just stopped it from being a romantic one, with Sara as the girlfriend instead, rather than the 'fun time in China'. But who knew what could happen? In just a few short weeks Ollie could easily have a change of heart. There were things Sara could do better than Laurel that Ollie would find out about.

…What Sara _didn't_ realise was that even now, 'Ollie' was already a façade. And that she too was still too young to understand that or appreciate its consequences.

 **Avant Garde Hotel, 2007**

Tommy Merlyn…

Currently had a girl between his legs.

Thoughts of Oliver leaving were the last thing on his mind, knowing full well that when Ollie returned it would be business as usual. They'd both separated for weeks at a time before and though he'd initially told Ollie that yachts suck and he'd be beyond bored, he was getting over it pretty quickly.

To the petit brunette whose head was bobbing slowly up and down on his lap… the previous night, all he'd had to do was tell her his name. That's all it had taken. Well, that, and the promise of being America's next top model. A promise he had no plans fulfilling. Ever. _Keep dreaming sweetheart._ He just wanted to get off. Well Ollie had Laurel to get off with… and that other girl, name beginning with an S. And Natalie. Janine, Max Fuller's wife. Tina…

He smiled. _Tina_. He missed Tina; she was into group play. And she was a stunner. Not a great dancer but she could do things with her tongue that drove every memory in his head deep down into the same gutter in which he drank his life away.

Licking his lips he felt the tell-tale tingling through his testicles. His toes curled and he let out a deep sigh as the girl – he doesn't remember her name and doesn't care to – moaned. The sound reverberated to deeper muscles in his crotch, furthering him on when she moved faster. Sucked harder. Deeper. Teeth scraping _up_ -

 _That's right._ He thought. Hips gyrating into her warm mouth as he spilled over. _You want this. All the girls love Tommy Merlyn._

Being a billionaire was sweet.

 **Starling City, Queen's Dock 2007**

Robert had **explained** to her. Many times.

Each lapse in judgement, every moment of weakness he'd confessed to. And each time she'd forgiven him. Even his affairs - some of which she'd known about beforehand, some she hadn't – she'd accepted and moved forwards. Maybe it wasn't healthy, or normal and it made her question her importance to him. Many would wonder, if they knew, why she'd stayed with such a man.

Of course most married couples weren't like Robert and Moira. Two very different yet surprisingly similar people who could and did lie readily, who glossed over the details of their own nefarious deeds – there were several - and turned a blind eye to their partners transgressions, though Robert was more culpable in this than she. They used their wealth and status to manipulate their own lives disregarding the impact it could and would have on others. Robert had affairs. Several of them in fact, spread out over the years. He'd admitted to most and Moira understood. Sometimes he needed it. Sometimes she wasn't enough.

However she knew he loved her dearly. He always came back to her. Yet there had to be more than love in a marriage for it to last. So they'd managed a routine of sorts. Some couples were rewarded with unconditional love and affection, others had the love die quicker than it started. At least she _had_ his love. Moira had resigned herself to this, had grown accustomed to it. Comfortable. Besides, he wasn't the only one to have lapsed and to have wandered into another's arms.

But he'd sinned a sin so much greater than she'd ever anticipated.

Robert had killed a councilman. Technically it was manslaughter but the crime would never make it to the light to be solved. He had gotten rid of all evidence and if he hadn't, Moira would have.

It had been years ago and the man had tried to blackmail him. They'd gotten into a heated argument that ended in violence. And instead of coming to her, Robert Queen had turned to his friend Malcolm Merlyn. Together they'd started Tempest: the secret organisation with only one goal in mind. To change Starling City for the better.

The conversation between them just a few days before had chilled Moira. To hear that the group she'd joined had started in such a way made her blood run cold. Made her question things. In many ways it was all a lie. But the worse part of it was that she was beginning to see that in dealing with the criminally wealthy and using them to make everything Tempest wanted possible, they had all tainted themselves.

She reassured herself that it was all for the greater good.

Waving now to the boat that held her son and husband, Moira watched them depart into the distance. She'd attempted to convince both Oliver and Robert that it wasn't the best idea right now for her son to be gallivanting across the ocean. He had his studies (there were always other colleges willing to accept more funding for a new science lab or football stadium) and Laurel to think about. But maybe this was a good idea: for Oliver to learn more about the family business. It was nice, she had to admit, to see him, eager to take on even a small mantle of responsibility. So whilst she didn't approve of the idea, there were worst things.

It seemed more than one person was wearing rose coloured glasses today.

Turning away to walk towards her Limo she found her driver already seated and waiting. She had a meeting to attend with Malcom in the morning, one he'd called suddenly and asked as one friend to another for it to be just between them. It wasn't very unusual. They were all old friends after all. But couldn't he have just spoken to her today before Robert set sail? She'd been feeling uneasy about their liaison and friendship since Robert had confessed his darkest sin to her.

However she had a few hours of indulgent shopping with her 12 year old daughter to think about this afternoon. The meeting with Malcolm could wait further analysis.

 **The Moment…**

 _I'm sorry._

 _You see like most stories involving tales of heroic upsurge, the ordinary would first have to fall._

 _Ollie Queen has to fall._

 _And in many ways he never got back up. Never rose from the tide. He disappeared beneath the surface and just… didn't rise. Couldn't. Not 'Ollie'. 'Ollie' died one day in 2007._

 _But he wasn't alone in descending. And there are many forms._

 _Here's a taste…_

 **The Waters of Lian Yu, 2009**

What makes a man… _good_?

Is it his choices? His skills? Is it his emotions or the words he uses? Maybe it is the way he reacts, or doesn't react or maybe the way he loves and the way he loses.

If any of this was the case… then _Oliver Queen_ believed he had failed. He had failed before he realised he'd even had to try.

Two years. It had been two years. He'd almost forgotten.

Almost.

 _Just let me die._

This was **hell**.

Hell refuse to let him lie down here and just… _leave_. To leave this life, a life he no longer understood. To leave his body, a body so different now from the one who'd pecked his mother on the cheek, giving her that cocky smile, like the idiot he was, as he loaded his only bag onto the deck of the Queen's Gambit, thoughts occupied by the blonde waiting for him inside.

Only those worthy deserved reprieve from perpetual sorrow and agony.

If he could smile the mockery of it would kill him.

The island was a living nightmare. Piece by piece it had stolen everything bright and free, anything innocent that was once left of the boy who became shipwrecked two years ago. But what would be the point of remembering someone who'd wasted his life before, who'd taken for granted everything that mattered?

Now he floats lifelessly in the ocean by the rocks of the islands surrounding Lian Yu. Barely conscious. Memories fleeting and thoughts running wild as the water licked his wounds.

…It was so still, this place. An atmosphere hung over it, at times almost supernatural, at others, lonely. Most times it was forbidding. Frightening.

He'd gotten used to it.

 _Now_ … it suited him.

A place where he could be as cruel, as merciless, as unflattering and as morally reprehensible as possible. No one would judge him. He could hide here and die without facing what he had become.

As if it lived and breathed the soul of Lian Yu demanded acquiescence. It demanded strength from him. It demanded courage and ruthlessness combined. It demanded change. It demanded a price. And in the end, when he was told the truth, he couldn't even laugh at the fact that the literal translation of Lian Yu - the Mandarin title of his punishment for living a life of worthlessness - literally meant Purgatory. It just made him sadder. More terrified. More sure that he wasn't getting off this place alive.

But that was a long while ago: mere weeks after his arrival.

Living daily with the idea that death was inevitable wasn't conducive to hope. So Ollie had none. And Ollie became Oliver. No one called him Ollie anymore.

Sara had, when he'd seen her again.

It hadn't felt real.

When he'd first landed on the rocky plains of the coastline he'd passed out. He'd woken again to pull the raft in which he'd lived in for days without food that held his father's carcass, a body by then covered with flies as they drifted deliriously, onto the shore.

His first few weeks after burying his father had been filled with terror, interspersed with curiosity and confusion. A haze of depression had descended quickly, combined thickly with what Oliver was sure had been shock. He hadn't cried when his father had died. Not even when he buried him. He'd thrown up. Twice. But he hadn't shed a tear.

Something had been very wrong with him. Maybe even before now, deep in his core, maybe he was already _bad_.

Meeting Yao Fei taught him loyalty as the man simultaneously showed him the basics of survival. Edward Fyers taught him contempt. Taught him to hate. His adept first teacher in the meaning of greed. In the lust men and women have for power. Slade Wilson was the purest example of a warrior to be found there; he taught him how to fight, how to be strong just as Shado taught him the meaning of acceptance and comfort. And how to shoot a bow. How to speak Mandarin.

Both of these people had forced him to understand betrayal. And the agony of your own weaknesses.

And then Sara…

Sara showed him the meaning of regret. Of acceptance to the shadows.

Her arrival forced him to face that he was no longer who he once was. And that he liked neither of his 'selves'. How could you rise up from that?

On this island, this place… it was dark. And empty and painful and he didn't want to leave. Didn't want to join in the light anymore. It was too hard. There was nobody left anyway, nobody to save him.

They were all gone.

 _All of them_.

So what was the point? There would be no more adventures, no more sacrifices. Maybe now it was time to join his father, who he'd failed.

 _Story of my life._

Whatever was waiting for him couldn't possibly be as bad as what he'd been through.

…As his consciousness ebbed he swore he heard the rumble of a motor boat, the ripples in the water increasing…

 **Gotham City, December 2009**

It was cold here… in the dark.

As night fell so did the snow. And it was past midnight.

The stillness of Gotham City winters.

It was something she'd grown to love-

 _ **Detest**_

Except now the silence would infiltrate her dreams, turning them to nightmares. The ghosts of her past whispering in her ears, wrapping around her mind, silkily like the arms of lure.

She couldn't reason her… _condition_. Her mind was in chaotic dissonance with itself. Couldn't fabricate the meaning behind the twitching of her fingers. Or the very real slant of her emotions, her… _sanity_ … _It couldn't-I don't- he just- I can't- that didn't happen-I'm not-_ _**No**_.

 _ **Never**_ **-**

-Couldn't process what had just happened. Thoughts were useless. A zombie had more life in it than she. Some people went to war as soldiers. Others were involved in accidents or environmental catastrophes. And individuals suffered through the whims of another. Things happened to people on this planet that were simply beyond their control. And it was unfair.

But she went through a different kind of madness. Her own decent.

Alone.

In the quiet.

 _ **So quiet**_

The storm had finally found her.

 _It's so black here._ There were shadows in this city. They crept up on you, reaching and clawing and crawling up your skin. Pulling you in. Shadows far more dangerous than the horrors roaming Vegas or Massachusetts.

On her back as the night encroached, her overly large beige coat stained with white and black, as blood looks black in the moonlight, she stared up into the night. The darkness swallowed her whole. Stars were fleeting. Glass fell slowly, in spattering's here and there. The building to her side foreboding as it stood twenty eight stories high. Nobody cared.

A muscle spasmed…. The side of her mouth _twitched_.

But she wasn't really there.

…Wet fur brushed against her fingers.

She didn't move. Couldn't. She wasn't really awake. Barely alive at all. Didn't really feel the pain. Not yet. Not ever. Not really. Never. Just the sense of wrongness of it all.

The anarchy of her psychosis.

 _That's… what I get_ , she supposed, eyes wide and unfocused, irises almost colourless, the blue of her veins dark against the white… _for trying to do the right thing_.

She'd never stop trying. It was in her nature.

 **The start…**

 _I won't tell you all that was faced. That's another story._

 _But in the time preceding and the time that followed, what once existed, became… different. Something else. New._

 _Because in order to beat death, to survive? One first have to rise. And rise again._

 _Until lambs become lions._

 _One would. One did. One had to._

 _Not a single soul would be untouched by the ramifications._

 _Good or bad? I'll leave it up to you to decide…_

 **Starling City, October 2012**

(They found him. Or rather, he _let_ himself be found.)

 _The name of the island they found me on is…_ _Lian Yu_ _. It's mandarin for_ _purgatory_ _. I've been stranded here for 5 years. I've dreamt of my rescue every cold black night since then. And I've_ _changed_ _._

 _For 5 years, I've had only one thought, one goal -_ _survive_ _... survive and one day return home. The island held many dangers. To live, I had to make myself more than what I was, to forge myself into a weapon. I am returning not the boy who was shipwrecked but the man who will bring justice to those who have poisoned my city…_

WEBG Starling City 7 News

"… _Oliver Queen is alive. The Starling City resident was found by fishermen in the North China sea 5 days ago, 5 years after he was missing and presumed dead following the accident at sea which claimed "The Queen's Gambit." Queen was a regular tabloid presence and a fixture at the Starling City club scene. Shortly before his disappearance, he was acquitted of assault charges stemming from a highly publicized drunken altercation with paparazzi. Queen is the son of Starling City billionaire Robert Queen, who was also on board but now officially confirmed as deceased…"  
_

 **Starling City Hospital**

"…20% of his body is covered in scar tissue. Second-degree burns on his back and arms. X-rays show at least 12 fractures that never properly healed…"

 **So much has happened…**

"Has he said anything about what happened?" 

"No. He's barely said anything. Moira, I'd like you to prepare yourself. The Oliver you lost...might not be the one they found."

… **So much is about to.**

 _And now I will fulfil my father's dying wish: to use the list of names he left me and bring down those who are poisoning my city. To do this, I must become someone else. I must become something else_ _._

 __ _…My name is Oliver Queen._

It starts.


	2. Chapter 2

**Whisper of a thrill**

 **Starling City, Queen's Park, October 2012**

Starling City air was thick with the promise of a premature autumn fog. It spoke in the dew on the grass, the chill that settled in your hands after so many weeks of warm weather. Starling could rarely boast hot summers anyway but it had been nice enough for the skinny denim shorts, spaghetti straps and sleeveless dresses to break free of their confinement.

It was 05:30am.

 _So much for sleeping in. Not like I ever do but - so not the point._

Feet beating a steady drum against the damp pavement, the only sound in the very still, early hour of the morning, Felicity allowed her mind to concentrate solely on each breath. Every measured inhale and exhale was in perfect alignment with each step. It had to be with the amount of time she spent running each week. Sometimes she felt that all she ever did was run.

As far as she could.

Rounding the bend in her path she came to her halfway point: an old tree that had been standing in this same park for almost 90 years. Cantankerous, she named it, for the way it stood so decidedly against the elements and refused to weather were all other trees and bushes died. The branches created a canopy against rain and wind.

The sight of it was a reminder to pause.

She didn't. She could keep going easily, she knew she could- _you can do this Felicity._ She'd jogged these steps before. Almost every single day. A routine adopted after waking bored, alone and antsy after too little sleep.

Too much adrenaline. Or at least, that's what her doctor told her. Tablets didn't help either for that matter, leaving her doctors perplexed. Felicity knew why they didn't work but it wasn't like she could tell them. Instead she found a good run seemed to be one of the few things that did the trick. It allowed her to regulate her breathing, a form of meditation, much like yoga (which she excelled in), that forced her body to calm way the hell down when it was _beyond_ worked up.

After this she'd return to her apartment, shower, eat her cereal, and drink liberal amounts of coffee as she watched the news before heading off to work. 'Work' was at Queen Consolidated where she lived. The. Dream.

She was an IT Technician; the best in her department, if the way her own supervisor used her like lap dog was anything to go by. Though, if she were to deduce her collective status as a whole from that she'd say she was the best in the building since every office head had come down to her department, asking for _her_ help with filing, with matrix's, virus's, security, even password discrepancies. On occasion she'd been volunteered (cough *forced* cough) to be a stand in for department heads, like a Court Stenographer, in board meetings. 'Bored Meetings' was more accurate.

Her shift differed daily but not by much: today was a 08:00 till 18:00 day. Long hours that she didn't really have to work at all but chose to because… because her mind never, ever stopped working. Because no matter how hard she tried not to, Felicity Smoak always seemed to have too much time on her hands.

Technically her shift ended at 15:00 today. Could have ended at 14:00. So for the extra few hours she did one of two things: she either a) worked on programmes and software that could and would benefit Queen Consolidated in the future or b) used the company's optimal operational grid to map out her own contingencies and interests.

It was a sort of side job: she played oracle to whoever needed it most… And other things. A freelance supplier.

It was a new day. Another chance for endless possibilities that would hopefully keep her active.

* * *

Felicity had moved to Starling over two and a half years ago. It had immediately felt like home. Like _her_ , which was a first. There was a darkness to the City, _not_ like Gotham. Less malevolent, more atmospheric. Clouds were ever-present and there was a type of behaviour that she'd had to learn quickly: mostly involving the Glades.

The Glades.

Like a swirling pool of crime, poverty, and depression, but characterised mostly by a loss of hope.

But the hope wasn't _gone_.

Shaking her head – _not now brain-_ to rid herself of thoughts that wouldn't be helpful to her just yet, Felicity closed and locked her front door before hurrying towards the shower in her, ah, _unusual_ abode, more on that later, wiping the trace of sweat off her forehead as she went. It wasn't like she was going to be late or anything: she never was. But she knew Walter Steele would need all hands on deck today, what with his plans for the Unidac Industries - Queen Consolidated merger. Not that she would be needed personally or anything, she wasn't anywhere near that level of importance.

The Unidac CEO had made it his business to increase project development in all their areas of scientific interest, for it was a scientific research corporation and probably would have succeeded in the production of all sorts of brilliant new technologies and ideas. However, excluding a rather brilliant peak service for PC operators, Unidac Industries had forgotten how to self-service. It was losing too much money to hold itself together, at least by its lonesome. Soon it would either declare bankruptcy or be sold.

Walter Steele, the CEO of Queen Consolidated, had looked ahead and, seeing the value in its developmental possibilities, had kept his eye on it for some time. The only reason why a lowly IT technician such as herself knew about it was because when her supervisor had been on sick leave she'd had to deal with the numbers regarding one of their many accounts and stock holdings… in front of the entire meeting of the board and after babbling insecurely and mortifyingly giving in to nervous giggling for a full five minutes she'd managed to deliver the required information by heart. Since then Mr Steel had, at random, asked small tasks of her.

It was a level of trust she hadn't expected.

Felicity nodded to herself as, with her hair dried, combed and tied into a ponytail, glasses fixed to her face, she breezed back into the living room, heading for the kitchen. _Coffee. Coffee, coffee, coffee, coffee…_ She pressed the button on her built-in kitchen monitor as she moved swiftly past, the TV immediately blaring bright the 06:25 news on WEBG. There were other news channels, but WEBG was the least bias of the lot. It opted for straight facts instead of gossip, stolen pictures paid for by less than reputable paparazzi or stories revealed in order of celeb status instead of humanitarian importance. Sometimes she went elsewhere for her news fix but so early in the morning, at the crack of whatever, she went to where it was safest.

A dark skinned newsman appeared in front of the camera. _"After a savage six month manhunt Carlos Vuentes, one of the notorious 'Three' has been caught and incarcerated for his ten year stretch in human trafficking. Though the prosecution are hesitant to give a more precise answer to this, they have promised to push for life imprisonment regardless of plea."_

As the coffee maker started to drip its beautiful, chocolate coloured elixir Felicity opened the cupboard above to her right, reaching on tiptoe for cereal bars and various oat mixes.

" _Sources say he was hand delivered the day before yesterday and though SCPD refuse to comment, a camera recording taken off a passer-by reveal Mr Vuentes to have been bound and gagged - the police had to carry him inside the station."_

Glancing carefully up from her mug Felicity caught the blurred snapshot of the Latin-American Trafficker unconscious, what looked like a ripped shirt was wrapped around half his face.

" _We don't know the identity of this gift giver but we were able to garner from the words between two policemen, both present at the scene, that the trafficker had mumbled as he slept. He simply said: 'I didn't see him. I didn't see him; he was too fast. Dark like the night. I didn't see him'."_

Watching the screen as the shot switched from the news reporter to the activity outside of the courthouse, Felicity absently munched on her cereal bar as dozens of people protested against the trafficker who'd incurred another level of fear amongst young boys in the Glades – his victims.

" _He's finally where he belongs!"_ The shout of one of the civilians caught sound. _"Now if the police could actually get their hands out of their asses like the Watchman, the Glades would be a much better place to live!"_ Blue eyes flickered away from the screen to her coffee maker, now ready to serve and poured herself a level cup of the steaming substance. Adding milk and sugar she took a sip, turning back to the news. The broadcasting studio was back. _"It seems like once again evidence of the existence of this Watchman, this gift-giver, was provided. Now the question on everyone's lips: who is this lone avenger? Candice what do you think?"_

The reporter turned to his partner, a newswoman with cropped, black hair and a sharp gaze. _"Well Nick, over the past 12 months sightings of the Watchman's deeds are a whisper growing into a sound in the Glades, one loud enough to-"_

 _Theatricality._ Tuning the reporter out Felicity checked her phone for messages – _shoot,_ she had an early order at Ma Jo's coffee shop to deliver - before moving to get her shoes from under the couch where she'd thrown them the night before. She slipped one on, forgetting about the clasp at the back so that she was inevitably hopping on one foot – _Frack, genius level intellect my ass_ \- as she attempted to reach for her toothbrush, which she left on the side of the kitchen sink.

"… _Oliver Queen is alive."_

Head shooting up, toothbrush lodged firmly inside her mouth she blinked at the TV where pictures of Oliver - 'Ollie the playboy legend'- Queen were being flashed one by one across the screen. A re-recording of the previous night's events, the timer on the bottom right of the screen flashing 10:33pm.

"… _The Starling City resident was found by fishermen in the North China sea 5 days ago, 5 years after he was missing and presumed dead following the accident at sea which claimed 'The Queen's Gambit'."_ Her jaw fell open, toothbrush and paste splattering onto her kitchen floor. It went unnoticed as she slowly straightened. _"Queen was a regular tabloid presence and a fixture at the Starling City club scene. Shortly before his disappearance, he was acquitted of assault charges stemming from a highly publicized drunken altercation with paparazzi. Queen is the son of Starling City billionaire Robert Queen, who was also on board but now officially confirmed as deceased…"  
_

A series of video footage followed this, detailing 'Ollie's' public rise to Prince of the Starling City's club scene but Felicity didn't see or hear any of it.

Her mouth opened and closed. "Whoa." The son of her boss had made it home.

 _Wasn't he… I mean wasn't he supposed to be dead?_

Well it was definitely one way to wake up in the morning. It was insane. Chances are the guy was currently at Starling City General as she stood there rooted to the floor, blinking gormlessly with an arm lifted, finger poised as if about to make a mental point. Queen Consolidated would be in an absolute uproar about this, everyone in the building wondering about how the return of the prodigal son would shape the future of the company instead of what they should be wondering about. Their work? Hell yes, their work.

Oh she just knew she'd be an inevitable buffer today for the rumour mill. Closing her eyes with a long-suffering groan she reached down, fastening on her other shoe. If there was one thing the employees at QC were good at it was gossip. Sure they did their jobs very well, they paid manners with interest but all of them hid behind this venire of care and worship for their superiors when really, most just wanted a pay rise. And something to discuss on nights out.

Felicity wondered absently if Mr Steele would even be available today. How he must feel with the prospect of welcoming back his now step-son when the guy probably didn't even remember his face. And if Oliver Queen had been found, where was his father?

A quick glance down at her form reminded her of the fallen toothpaste. "Great start to the day Miss Smoak."

A new day. Endless possibilities.

* * *

 **Queen Consolidated**

It was official: QC was a gossip fish bowl.

News of Mr Queen's return spread _fast_. In fact it spread so quickly that it had only taken the time it took for Felicity to leave her small office in search of coffee and come back again for it to reach her that 'didn't you know? Walter Steele was in fact coming into QC today'… and _she_ had been the one to inform her supervisor in the first place.

How had she discovered this priceless nugget before her head of office? She was friends with the senior security head, an ageing man with an addiction to cream cakes who'd told her as she entered the building that morning to expect Mr Steele to arrive within the hour but that the man would only be staying for half the day. His wife, Moira Queen wanted him with her for some support. Felicity had blinked at the news, passing Rufus his bag of Ma Jo's delicacies and hefting her folder stack in her arms before stepping into the elevator, wondering at how the return of the Queen heir had already changed the shape of her day and that of the company's.

 _Men will do that to you I suppose._

The person to inform her of this new and exciting piece of gossip was Teresa Tanning, an office administrator. She worked around Felicity's supervisor Ned Stole and basically organised everything from his schedule to his diet. She was also in charge of maintaining order on their floor as she was so very slightly senior than Felicity and, therefore, thought she was the boss of her. A day rarely went by without Teresa sticking her bronze locks around Felicity's door to remind her about lunch times, break schedules etc. But head her off with a slip of office gossip and she'd leave you be for a day or a week depending on the scale of 'juiciness' the gossip could be measured upon.

"Feliccccity-", yep, that's how she said her name; long c's that sounded like s's as if her name was the appellation for snake language. Ugh. The woman was almost eight years older than her and she spoke to her like she was an errant child. "Ned's CPU crashed again."

Resisting the urge to roll her eyes she nodded her head – _it just never stops around here_ \- lips spread in an utterly fake smile of acknowledgement as Teresa faffed around the floor. She let out a loud, unladylike exhale when the woman was out of her range of vision. _Ned's CPU did_ _not_ _crash again – unless he was downloading porn._ For the third time. Memories  never to be spoken of or thought of, though it may one day be of great use in regards to blackmail material, however Felicity had never blackmailed a work colleague in her life. But if she had to scrub clean his system one more time for malware he'd caught whilst transferring data without a licence…

Maybe she'd take another look to diagnose his hardware, see if anything popped up. She pursed her lips.

Last month he'd almost caused irreparable damage to a contract QC was hoping to settle simply because he'd tried to install a DBMS (Database Management System) incompatible with their already present security software.

When Felicity had first started working at QC she'd pondered, hard, on how such a man who'd boasted his intelligence regarding any OS in existence could have been made IT Supervisor. However she'd realised that he did indeed have a gift: Ned was proficient in delegating the work load. Asshole.

Seated now at her rounded desk in a room that was just out of sight of her work colleagues, but close enough that she'd be able to hear if any of them needed assistance Felicity loaded up her personal collection of monitors, towers and servers as she opened the lock to her desk cabinet. Inside sat her favourite coffee mug where Robin Hood was displayed in all his glory on one half as an arrow flew around the other. Smiling to herself she nipped over to the 21st floor's kitchen area, pilfering from the office's coffee supply, sighing and relaxing as the scent wafted up her nose.

"Okay, so maybe I'm a _little_ addicted." She admitted to herself, though it came out more as a question than a statement. "It's not like I actually _need_ coffee to survive or anything..."

Walking back with her full cup she was interrupted from her internal debate, which now included a long list of the pros and cons of caffeine, by – _I think his name is Giles? Please god let it be Giles_ ; a scruffy haired messenger who worked the floors from 07:30am till 12:00pm each morning.

His eyes were a little bewildered as he caught up to her and she made sure to cradle her cup. "Heads up Fee." She caught the eye twitch before it left her: Gods, how she hated that nickname. Yet everyone from 13th floor to the 30th seemed to know it- people she'd never met before knew it. Though she had spoken to Giles once or twice before. "Your Super's making his rounds. And it looks like he's got Mr Steele with him!"

Her eyebrows shot into her hairline as nerves and anxiety immediately started to throb through her. _Oh boy._ Since when did this _ever_ happen? "Mr Steele is on this floor?" It sounded like a mothball had crawled into her mouth.

"Yeah!" Already stepping away from her Giles moved towards the elevators. If Giles excelled at one thing, it was that he took pride in his job meaning that he got all messages, memos, instructions, documents, packages and mail to the suitable places _before_ time. "I think it's got something to do with Mr Queen making his return to Starling."

He was the first person to truly mention the taboo subject. Shaking herself out of her stupor she jittered on her modest heels towards him as he thumbed for the lift and hissed stupidly, as if there was anybody else around to hear her. "Do you know if anyone else has seen the news about that?" Unlike her and Giles, most of her fellow employees stayed in bed for as long as they could in the mornings.

Distracted, his leg kept bouncing on the spot, he answered. "No… but it won't be long. There's a TV in most kitchens." True, in HD too and it was always fixed on a channel that broke bulletins of celebrity gossip. Luck or no luck, the floor would be buzzing with the news before 11am. Darn it. "You shouldn't be worrying about that though; Mr Steele's got an order for delivery this morning, saw it on the way in."

This time she did wince. "Thanks for the heads up." She muttered before hurrying over to her seat, careful not to spill a drop.

An order for delivery usually meant an acquisition for computerised goods and services; each time she'd been forced to check up on her supervisor's work and _each time_ she'd found some sort of inconsistency or that he'd fumbled on something. Sorting out his mess simply enabled her work to run more efficiently. It was something she told herself but in truth she honestly cared about the company she worked for. Its potential and fairness, its long reach… Its capability for growth. Its boss.

Walter Steele. A man who envisioned further greatness. A man who told her – pretty succinctly too – two minutes into her stomach churning interview, over two and a half years ago, that she was over qualified for the job. But he'd handed it to her anyway, stating that to let her go would be the equivalent to financial suicide. 'Stay ahead of our competitors' he'd said. And since then, on the few times they crossed each other's path he'd never endeavoured to look down his nose at her or tried to fob her work; he'd always displayed a calm pride in his staff. He'd taken her babbling in his stride too, with nods and small, short, if not awkward smiles.

Though simple, she'd never forget that kindness. It was worth more to her than she could ever possibly express.

Strange though that he was making a personal visit to her floor: there wasn't any need. Normally a solitary email to Mr Stole's office was more than satisfactory to enable the process. But Walter Steele was like that, she considered. Sometimes he'd show up randomly to garner second and third opinions. Other times Moira Queen would be on his arm and on a good day, if she actually managed to come across the woman she'd barely managed to speak a stuttered word, never mind a babbling sentence without sounding like she'd just eaten a vibrator - _ah, even my brain is against me_. The woman was intimidating with a capitol 'I'. Remembering their one close encounter, where she hadn't really even talked or looked at her, Mrs Queen's – _Mrs Steele-Queen, she sounds like a woman who hyphenates-_ eyes had surveyed with cool purpose. Steel was an adjective truly worthy of description for that woman instead of just a last name.

"Miss Smoak?"

A blink, a jolt and a palpitation later and Felicity's brain began to compute that Walter Steele was, this very moment, standing in her office.

… _Annnnnd_ staring down at her from behind her desk like he'd already been speaking and she hadn't heard a single thing, all thanks to her overstimulated mentality. _Repair!_

"Mr Steele! I-I didn't notice you standing there sir." _Smooth._

He cocked a brow. "Evidently."

Her stomach churned with embarrassment."I'm sorry sir, sometimes my brain just goes _blurg-" Blurg? Really? "_ A _-_ and I see and hear things that- not that I hallucinate or _anything-" Oh god I'm talking: my mouth is moving and I'm saying things._ "I'm just saying that sometimes my mind runs away with me." _Abort!_ "Like my mouth." _Shut up!_ "Not that you've noticed my mouth." _Oh this ship is so going down…_ "W-what I mean to say is-"

She was saved by British manners when Mr Steele, bless him profusely, raised a hand in gesture of pause. "I know what you meant." Letting out a sigh of relief and what would have been deep mortification if she wasn't so used to this happening almost every single day of her life she watched Mr Steele lift up what looked like an order form. "I have last year's financial trends for requisitions; I want them lined up with this year's tally."

… _So it had_ _zero_ _to do with Mr Queen's return from the big dirt nap. Mr Steele doesn't appear at all affected by it but maybe that's just British manners._

Mr Steele passed them over to Felicity who looked from him, to the sheet and back again.

"So soon? Even though we haven't finished with 2012?" _Unusual. To say the least._

"Even though." He nodded. _To say the very least._ "The new directive for the updated OP's is in the back…" brown eyes looked dead set at her blue ones. "I trust you can handle it."

 _The order? Or something else?_ "Of course! You aren't giving them to Ned sir?"

He shook his head this time. "No." Looking truly unrumpled and every inch the British noble he could have been but wasn't Mr Steel turned to march from her office, his voice carrying over his shoulder. "If any irregularities show up I want the report on my desk in 48 hours Miss Smoak."

She actually shot up from her seat, as if she were about to salute the man already striding own the hall. "You'll have them Mr Steele!" She didn't expect answer so she sat again with a poof of breath. "Well… that was very brief. Like all the men in my life."

 _He wasn't handing them to Ned this time? It isn't really my job to do this sort of thing. And what was that about irregularities?_ But if there was one thing Felicity Smoak was proficient at, other than computers, it was her skill in getting to the root of a problem. To the fundamentals. Mr Steele was trusting her with something once again.

"Right!" Linking her fingers together she stretched them, cracking the knuckles and, apart from the sound making her feel gross, didn't make her look even remotely cool as she shook them loose. "Let's get to work!"

* * *

 **Timeless Hotel, Private Sweet, 10:16am**

 _Ugh, God…_

He swore he'd stop doing this to himself months ago, a year ago, _after_ _Laurel_ … but he still always ended up right back where he'd started. Between a girl's thighs.

 _I'm surprised I wasn't born this way._

Since he'd spent almost half of his life cradled by a woman's legs it was an understandable consideration. Though sometimes he'd wake up half to completion, hard as a rock as whatever lucky pick of the night – he never remembered their names - sucked him off.

He was glad this wasn't the case this time. She wasn't Laurel, so he didn't want her down there. It used to be his favourite past time. Getting off with whatever willing female was in reach. But more and more often, since… since _Oliver_ … he'd begun to limit sexual opportunities and erect – pun intended – barriers during his various one night stands.

Of course at the beginning, after Ollie disappeared, all Tommy had done was fuck around, get high on whatever was being passed by him and generally drink himself into a coma. But it had lessened eventually, mostly. Sort of.

Not that he'd _fully_ stopped now with his alcohol hazed nights; the ones he never remembered the start of but, with a stupid smile on his face, always felt the aftershocks of the finish. It was just that they'd started to lose their 'touch', so to speak.

They weren't doing their job.

In the past, a night of wild sex prepared him for the cool countenance of his father, the absence of his mother, and set him up for the ride a full day of bromance (he fully admitted the term) with his best friend and partner in crime, Ollie, would be.

He _missed_ Ollie.

Missed the jokes and the laughter, missed them trailing after skirts, missed Oliver's jokes on how much Tommy liked _getting_ 'head' and how much Ollie liked to _give_ head. He missed having him on his personal speed dial, the first person he'd make a call to in the morning. But more than anything he missed having someone who was just like him: a little lost, with a near unlimited libido and an education that didn't quite match his inheritance. Like Oliver, Tommy hadn't graduated from Harvard.

Thoughts of past lost quickly melted away as the girl beneath him shifted, half asleep. He wasn't inside her, having managed to pull out before they both lost consciousness, but he was close. And she was warm. It would be easy to again bury himself in the girl whose name he knew not, and forget who he was too. However – _oh right, I forgot; I'm_ _ **limiting**_ _myself_ \- he'd only brought three condoms and they were all used up.

He was really growing as a person.

His shoulders and arms groaned under his own weight as he rolled sideways, completely spent, and reached for the glass of water on the cabinet next to the bed. _I've still got it._

The swanky hotel room was already light meaning he was probably late for whatever meeting his father wanted him to attend and he didn't care. _It's not like I'm even interested._ Squinting, he peered at the girl to his right who'd very simply said the previous night, that she was horny and wanted him to take care of it.

By how deeply she'd been snoring he guessed he'd done his job. He never failed. _Don't ever let it be said that Tommy Merlyn wasn't Devil-smooth between the sheets._

The 'she' was still lying on her back and totally rocking the body she was born with.

Reaching for the remote he flicked a channel on the 42 inch screen in the room and immediately it flashed on TMZ: Celebrity Gossip and Entertainment News.

His eyes shot wide open when an old picture of Oliver appeared on screen next to the words: Oliver Queen is alive. He turned up the volume on whichever reporter was speaking. It was a woman.

"… _Queen's return has everyone guessing. Where was he? And how did the billionaire even survive five years without vodka shots or room service?"_

"You lucky son of a bitch…" _Ollie!_ His excited whisper had him flying out of bed and grabbing the clothes he'd thrown everywhere. _I don't believe it!_ "He's alive!"

The outburst had the _second_ girl he'd brought back with him, stumbling from the bathroom.

Well… he hadn't gown _that_ much.

Almost totally wasted she hadn't lasted more than a single orgasm before sliding onto the floor asleep. With smudged make up and a puffy face he didn't understand how he'd thought she'd been sexy the night before.

 _Whatever._ But he didn't let it bother him. Couldn't. Because Oliver was back. His wing man. He shrugged on his shirt haphazardly, grinning like a fool and hopped into his boxers.

"What's going on?" Girl 2 managed to mumble as girl 1 rolled over, already asleep once more. He gave a quick mental note to pay the desk clerks to have them kicked out by noon.

"He's alive!" He didn't care if she understood, she was nobody, and he just skipped past her, pants still in his hands as he bolted out the door, yelling joyfully down the hall. "Ollie's alive!"

* * *

 **Queen Consolidated, 23** **rd** **Floor, 10:50 am**

"I wonder what he looks like now."

"If he looks anything like how he used to…yum."

"Mmm, I know right."

"If I see him I'm going to ask for a selfie!"

She really shouldn't be surprised by any of this but… _are you kidding me right now?_

She'd known. Of course she had.

Rule number 1 in employment in a new city: get to know its local celebrities, its favourite news-lines and events that make the Starling City Journal. Of the many things of her list of new do's and don'ts in Starling, of taboos and scandals, Oliver Queen stood almost atop of the list in his sheer audacity to neglect his inheritance and remain a playboy. A role figure you wouldn't want your kids to look up to.

Mr Queen wasn't exactly the catch of the day; I mean, if you're looking for a good time, an easy lay so to say then, yes, he was the PERFECT catch. And he really wasn't the type you could honestly bring home to introduce to your parents. Before his disappearance she'd discovered that he ran with a bad crowd – _it wasn't always Tommy Merlyn_. And many a time it involved drugs – _Because the Glades honestly couldn't get any worse, way to go helping it get that much fatter off its local commerce in cocaine, LSD and heroin_ _boys._ He stayed out at all hours, neglected his studies, refused the rank his name naturally provided, he lied, he cheated, he stole – _hearts and virtue but from what I heard, it was_ _freely_ _given_ – and he was definitely the type to never remember a girl's birthday.

He wasn't exactly a _decent_ guy…

 _Good._

Yes, it was an odd answer and she wasn't exactly impressed by his profile but she was all for a little rebelliousness against capitalism and the bourgeoisie… even though she worked for a 500 fortune company (QC happened to be in the top ten 500-large U.S. corporations as ranked by their gross revenue), but it was the principle of the thing.

So Ollie Queen hadn't wanted his title? Big deal. There were worst things.

But if you went off tabloid print offs from five, six, seven years previous Ollie Queen, or at least one of the Queens, and sometimes a Merlyn, filled pages 3 and 4 of almost every edition. It was ridiculous. And wearisome. Though at the time, considering some of the photos taken, the two billionaire joyriders seemed to breathe in the attention for breakfast, dinner and lunch. And if you were talking headliners you also just had to make reference to the many, many, fan pages online.

 _And when I say fan sites, I totally mean fan-_ girls _._

There were dozens of them and each college in North America had one, all of them detailing the sexual exploits, rogue details and basic party mania both Queen and Merlyn cooked up. In sordid detail. Books could be made, shows run – and some were - even at MIT, which had come as a shock, though she shouldn't really be at all surprised.

Ollie Queen had left behind many a broken heart.

And it showed, exactly where it shouldn't… On QC's 23rd floor.

21st floor's coffee machine was on the fritz once again and Felicity hadn't the time to fix the thing. Instead she'd traversed upstairs in search of coffee and had found, in the square kitchen with two small round tables, 8 chairs, that half the females employed at QC had either _met_ Mr Ollie Queen previously or had heard of him via friend, colleague, roommate etc. And er, a good chunk of the men working there too had commented more than once that Ollie Queen's personal tastes had been open to interpretation. He'd really gotten _around_.

It was information she neither needed nor required so early in the work day.

What truly stunned her though was the focus of the gossip.

No one, not a soul, had mentioned that this guy had spent five years, FIVE, alone. On an island near China. That he was probably so far removed from social propriety and performance that he was more likely to run and hide than party the night away once again. Ollie Queen, regardless of his previous status, never mind that he was a playboy, that he is a billionaire, that he was super cute – _yes, I said it, thought it, think it, know it_ – probably looked and acted like a cave man right about now. Like Tom Hanks in Cast Away. _The hospital staff must be having a whale of a time right now._

She'd been standing there, baffled by the three women sitting in their huddled group by the TV as she drank her coffee, listening to their diatribe.

The one closest to the screen let out a forlorn sigh that Felicity snorted at. "It's a pity there aren't any new pictures of him." _20 dollars bet that the woman hasn't even seen him before in her life and she's already picking out baby names and birthday cards._

"Yeah… you know he posted a pic of his abs once."

"Oh yeah! He was a swimmer in college right?"

"Want to bet where Tommy Merlyn's new party will be now that Mr Queen's back?"

 _Please._ Rolling her eyes Felicity decided now was the time to vacate the floor, literally, before she caught their neurosis.

 **CNRI, Legal Aid Office**

She didn't care.

Ollie Queen had returned. So what?

 _Him_ being alive didn't bring Sara back. Didn't rewind time and fix her parent's marriage. Didn't heal her inability to trust men. Didn't mend the hopes and dreams for the future they'd shared and he'd shattered. Didn't change how difficult life had been for her after the fact. Didn't take away the knowledge that he'd spent, what she'd believed his last moments on earth to be, screwing her sister. It didn't matter. Because it was his fault. All of it.

He could rot in hell for all she cared.

And if part of her had been affected at the news, if her heart had raced for just a moment before she snapped the TV off, if it shook her then it didn't matter. Because he didn't matter. Her job did. The people she helped did. She hated that everyone at CNRI, the place she knew and was at home in, the job she owned and could control had seen the newsflash. And had looked at her afterwards. With pity. With curiosity. With judgement. They had no right to judge her. She'd done nothing wrong. Nothing.

 _She_ arbitrated. _She_ past judgement on the guilty. On those who deserved it.

And Ollie definitely deserved it.

But what was worse was that he was still 'Ollie' to her and always would be.

 _No._ Shaking her head, she absolved herself for her lapse and focused on the insect in her current case: Adam Hunt: CEO of Hunt Multinational. A ruthless business man who'd embezzled money from his clients. The man had an army of lawyers and they'd already made a charge of venue, forcing her and Joanna; her friend, to face Judge Grell. A man whose re-election campaign Adam Hunt had funded, which basically meant that he had the judge in his back pocket.

This too, didn't matter. She'd win this. Justice would prevail.

* * *

 **Little bird Supermarket, 17:59pm**

 _Permissions, permissions…_

Okay, so she cut work half an hour before schedule.

Gleaming through reams of data concerning monthly takes, cuts and spends at QC hadn't exactly put Felicity in the mind for her own personal interests. And she'd gotten a decent run with her other priorities the previous night. Anyway, it wasn't like she _had_ to stay after 16:00. But staying those extra hours worked up a lot of money in overtime, which she was so incredibly grateful for. Paying off student debts wasn't fun; sure she'd scored a scholarship but the student-maintenance loan she took out each year she'd been based at MIT had only just been paid off. Like, last month.

 _You could say my social life is non-existent._

But… that wasn't necessarily a bad thing.

Really, in terms of friendship, if all she got to choose from were the sycophants, sheep, lecturers, gossip mongers and scoundrels who worked at QC then she'd just rather not go out.

Or date.

God, she'd had some truly horrific dates; if she didn't embarrass herself first she'd managed to, after a solid hour in, discover that the men sitting across from her were easily intimidated by higher intelligence. And if they weren't it was because they were too busy trying to slip their hands up her skirt… or they were making eyes at the buxom brunette tending bar. Her last date had been with a medical student who owned an incredibly creepy array of surgical instruments and dental tools, which he named and shelved in a shrine… in his _bedroom_.

Inevitably her work was her life. _So unbelievably sad._

Of course, she also hadn't eaten much of anything that day – _Ooh mint chip, mine!_ As the hours had passed her findings had grown more and complex and more distracting, until eventually she'd discovered a pattern to the 'discrepancies' that Mr Steele had hinted she may come across. Someone had been stealing – embezzling – money from QC each and every time an order for delivery had been sent between 2009 and 2012. And the sums of money were so small and split amongst each requisition that no one had noticed a thing. Except perhaps her boss. A couple of hundred dollars on top of _this_ bill, a thousand extra on _that_ order…built up over time the culprit had a sure $30, 000 hidden away somewhere. Finally he could go to that dream holiday in the Caribbean!

And since each order came out from Ned Stole's office it was a pretty benign guess who was responsible. _Sloppy Ned, very sloppy. Never use your own system._

 _I'm going to have to wait until morning to tell Mr Steele_ ; the report was written and ready for delivery but he'd left QC just after noon and she didn't relish the idea of disturbing his time with his wife just so that she could deliver the news. _Like getting between a rock and a hard place, Mrs Queen being the rock and Mr Steel the… never mind._

So instead she'd gone in search of fruit; because take out each and every night couldn't possibly be healthy. Even if it was delicious and wanted. _Dim Sum. Yum_

Loading her basket with the deep ginger of permissions – her massive tub of mint chip tucked towards the side - she counted three pears and three large Fuji apples, adding them to the plastic carrier amongst some clementine oranges. Little Bird supermarket wasn't the priciest of places to shop for food but, food was supposed to be eaten, not paid for with a full months earnings. The name came from a kind of joke about the city; a little bird like the Starling, even though the City itself was anything but small. And the reason she liked it so much was that their fresh fruit and vegetables were the sweetest, crispest selections that she'd managed to find.

Absent-mindedly swaying to the half assed music coming out of the intercom as she waited at the checkout, she thought about what the next five hours or so would hold for her; home, a bath, Game of Thrones reruns or a Robin Hood marathon during which she'd augment the parameters of her latest search.

She'd written a program, one releasing Trojans into unsuspected and unfortunately undeveloped systems, _so painful to see_. This program allowed Felicity to detect _patterns_.

And the latest pattern had left her with the need to _do_ something about it.

Like most of the previous patterns.

There had been a steady rise of fire outbreaks in low income housing within the Glades. Houses and fires were an unfortunate occurrence that happened however frequently or infrequently that they do. But there were three threads to this development that, when she tweaked, suggested suspicious cause. The first was that the only houses affected were situated primarily in the East Glades. The second was that each outbreak had happened within weeks, sometimes days of each other. The third was that each house claimed to own a fire alarm unit.

A repeated excuse kept cropping up on statements made by the victims: _the batteries are dead, it's broken, there's something wrong with it – but it's brand new!_

If you're wondering why Felicity Smoak, IT Technician at QC felt the need to investigate this… well, like she stated: Felicity doesn't sleep much. And is a computer genius. Filled with boundless curiosity. Gets bored easily and honest to god, she cannot help but lend a hand. Even if that hand held within it secrets that could get her shot on a good day. She had a clandestine side job that sometimes paid, sometimes didn't. It was set up online with a transferable bank account that couldn't be traced back to her. As a hacker, she was in the top five percentile in cyber security and all things computer related and there were many people who could make use of her skills. Through an anonymous site and user ID she'd set up a link that would allow people to discover her and ask for help.

Some of the people asking for _help_ had been the CIA. That had been a truly scary day.

Her peculiar kind of wanderlust however was what had also started the current Court war involving the CEO of Hunt's Multinational, Adam Hunt's, long term embezzlement. Bottom line? He shouldn't have funnelled so much money as swiftly and as sneakily as he had, going through a secondary account of a more than disreputable bank account; one she'd discovered held ties to the mob. Her programme had picked it up with a ping faster than you could say 'felony'. Hundreds of thousands of dollars that Felicity had discovered via infiltrated protocols and the er, ahem, _illicit_ purchase of a set of documents hidden on a hard drive  within the heart of the millionaire's commercial building had started the process that would, hopefully, lead the man to giving back his client's and his subsidiaries homes and livelihoods. The man was in trouble with some bad people – she'd accidentally discovered and found she couldn't care less - but thieving from those who already can barely afford to support themselves? Bad move.

She'd slipped the police the information and, like most days/nights was now leaving it in their… sort of capable hands. Well… they'd passed such a massive case to CNRI HQ. Not the best idea. Unless they persuaded a truly ballsy and extremely competent lawyer to step forward, who wouldn't bend at the absolutely genuine threat of death, Adam Hunt's own merry band of disreputable masterminds were going to pull the prosecution stand to pieces.

This time however – back to the fires - as much as she tried to focus on her QC job her brain had managed to, peripherally, detect a design to her latest results. Results that she'd gathered data for after hearing about the rising fatalities resulting from the fires. After a weekend of searching she'd exposed a possible, plausible cause:

Holder Corporation, led by CEO James Holder, had installed _ALL_ of the defective fire alarms. It was too big a coincidence to dismiss. And it really didn't matter how large of a target this company was; for justice it was worth it. As long as she remained anonymous.

 _But why? What reason could he possibly have for giving faulty fire alarms? To make that very specific area even more disreputable than it already is?_

Something else she'd found out since moving to Starling: there was a secret current, a subliminal communications network liaising information back and forth from the Glades to the rest of Starling City. To an undiscovered network like Felicity, who absorbed information like a sponge, it was candy land to try to fathom.

The Glades was like a circular hub, filled with nefarious activities and surrounded by the rest of Starling City, which made up the majority. If you could look it up on a map the basic design to the metropolis made her feel as if someone had _planned_ the growth in such a way, as if a god-sized pair of hands had swept the more visible types of illegal activity into the south-west area of the centre of the city and labelled it: the Glades. Even more eerie than that was the _invisible_ crime wave– those crimes that cause the most grief that are committed by the powerful, the environmental crimes, political crimes and crimes which often take place within the domain of work, the marked men and women, the death warrants, the money laundering and embezzlement, the Mafia/Triad/Bratva movements- they were all officiated with or in the 'safe' areas of Starling.

The evidence for this had been… unexpected. A bit of a shock to discover that Starling was another Gotham City, another Bludhaven.

She had some Intel to prompt a possible lawsuit against James Holder - this she pondered as she drifted from the tills to the automated doors of the supermarket - maybe even an arrest but she needed to be sure that the evidence was sufficient enough to stick. Which meant taking the morning off work tomorrow to go take a look at the Western area of the Glades. She built more than enough flexi-time too so there shouldn't be a problem there. Afterwards she could deliver, anonymously of course, the full enchilada to a decent Detective: maybe Lance or Hilton who, she found whilst monitoring 'traffic', were two of the more honest detectives on the force.

Like a generous tip.

 _I feel a little antsy though_ , she thought as she chewed on her lip, the keys to her car in her grasp, _Mr Steele has a meeting in the morning. Ned's been appointed assistant to the officiator in the-_

Ned.

The meeting. Tomorrow _morning_.

The meeting that Mr Stole had been working on all afternoon – _hey, he might be a thief but he's a committed haggler too_ \- and had left his paperwork in his office. Before leaving. Knowing that Mr Steele would need to see them at _least_ 30 minutes before the meeting so that he wouldn't look like a fool in front of the investors. _Not that he'd get those 30 minutes considering the meeting is at 08:30am!_

 _Oh shit!_

It was none of her business. She shook her head. None at all.

And then slumped, head resting on the steering wheel when she realised she'd already opened her car door, put the groceries on the seat next to her and placed the car into ignition as she mentally plotted the fastest route to QC.

"…I am _much_ too committed to my job. I must be. Or something." _Maybe._

She stepped on the gas.

* * *

 **Queen Estate, Queen Mansion, 19:00pm**

The Estate felt haunted. By the past, by memories or by ghosts, which she truly believed did exist, Felicity wasn't sure.

But it was a little sinister.

Ducking her head so that she could peek _up_ – _the mansion was that tall_ \- at the house Felicity let out a breath, whispering to herself. "What am I doing here?" The heavens had opened up on her way back to QC and now the rain was resembling more of a pour than a patter. So she couldn't be certain that the gloomy atmosphere was a result of said weather or simply… the _dominance_ factor. Because this was her _boss_.

She was visiting Walter Steele's house, in the evening, in the _rain_ so she was sure to look hideous since there was a pretty huge walking space between her car and the massive front doors – _doors, there's more than one front door_ – and she didn't have an umbrella, to hand him papers her supervisor should have presented him with hours ago… _and he's probably sitting at dinner right about now. Which means I've got to interrupt him with work and the words 'never take your work home' sounds like brilliant advice suddenly- no! I will not interrupt his eating- his eating? Who says that? Apparently I do- I'm just going to pass it to whoever opens the doors and if it is Mr Steele then he's going to forever have the mental picture of me standing on his porch looking like a sewer rat and handing him tomorrow's notes, because I just_ can't _get enough of my job it seems. God, I'm like the cautionary tale to hard workers everywhere…_

"He's Mr Steele! Why couldn't he just remember he had papers he needed to see?"

Driving into the Queen Grounds was like visiting a member of the royal family in England. Because they were rich, grand, grandiose and important, you _immediately_ felt as small and as unwelcome as humanely possible. "Like an ant under a microscope…"

'Queen' in every sense of the term.

Turning off the gas she desperately wanted to stare up at the main – _because, wow, there was more than one building_ – house some more, or at least until she got her legs under her but when she'd stopped at the gate – _of course there had been a gate –_ she'd had to explain via the intercom – babbling incoherently as usual, who she was here to see and why:

Even though no one was there to see it an incredibly nervous smile had flickered across her face, anxiety making it twitch every now and then. _"Erm, I'm here to deliver some papers for Mr Steele?"_ It had come out like a question as she'd leaned out of her car window, because apparently proximity increased the unlikely chance that she'd be understood. _"N-no please don't disturb Mr Steele from the dinner he's probably only just sat down to- no there was just a bit of a mess up at the office today. Mr Steele needs these papers for a meeting he has with QC's investors in the morning. You want me to drive up but only until the secondary gates? …O-okay."_

The secondary gates. Seriously. They wanted her to park her car at what looked like 100 metres away from the house. _Why, so that I can't make a quick getaway?_

The pause as she sat in her car lengthened a little. She'd been here before, _not outside the Queen Mansion,_ she mentally floundered, _no I've never been_ here, _here. But I've been in this place before. This position. Trying to help._

The place she ended up, her reward?

Black.

Dark.

Cold.

Unnatural.

Me.

She shook herself… _so here we go._

Stuffing the file covered papers inside her coat Felicity opened the car door, cold water immediately spitting against her legs and shoes. She shivered in distaste and groaned, _I'm going to get soaked,_ before making a mad dash out towards the sheltered stairs.

Panting already when she arrived she checked herself and an almost devastated noise sounded from her throat at her appearance: seconds or so of pouring rain and she was soaking wet. Her coat felt five pounds heavier, her hands and hair were dripping, water droplets were falling from her glasses and chin and the collar front of her pale pink shirt that she'd tucked into her modest skirt was a different colour altogether now. _I am the very image of a serious employee. Ugh. Typical._

'Wet for my boss' took on a whole new meaning when Felicity Smoak was involved.

Sighing, there wasn't anything she could really do, she turned and swallowed. The front doors loomed before her, a brass knocker on each side. _Okay do I tap it, slam those knockers down or rap with my knuckles until they bleed?_ In a house this big there was no way they'd hear. But she didn't actually want the whole house to know she was there. In and out. Quick and effective. Give it to him and leave just as fast….

She closed her eyes at her own insinuation. _God why is everything in my head a minefield of sexual references?_

The low light of the porch was soothing in its unnatural warmth as it seeped from the small translucent windows above each door. Carefully she lifted one heavy handle and lightly knocked it against the wood once, twice, three times, wincing at the thought of how it must sound from inside. Almost immediately the curved door handle was being pulled down by someone, _please don't be Mr Steele, please don't be Mr Steele_ …

A petit woman, with beautifully kind, crystal blue eyes stood through the opening she'd created. She wore a nondescript pale blue maid's uniform and pinafore. So totally removed from what Felicity had expected to see she stared at the woman who was already prompting her with soft nudges from those lovely eyes of hers to speak. "Yes?"

"O-oh…" She sniffed, licking a water droplet from the skin between her top lip and nose. "I spoke to someone on the way in? I have-" Her hand shot inside her coat to pull out the file, presenting it to the kind faced woman. "I have Mr Steele's papers for his meeting in the morning." _Seriously, why hadn't he remembered them?_

The older woman with raven hair blinked at them. "He forgot them?" _Apparently._

It was well and truly difficult for Felicity to prevent herself from being distracted by the woman's obvious Russian accent because, _wow: who spoke Russian in Starling City?_ Shaking her head with big eyes that couldn't be seen behind her thoroughly doused glasses and said. "No, no he didn't." _He so did_. "It wasn't his fault! My supervisor, he's," _a tool_ , "forgetful?" _What, am I asking her that question?_ The woman looked a little nonplussed. "Mr Steele asked him for these and they're finished but he really does need to see them before tomorrow morning." Not accounting for the fact that Felicity's own report was studiously hidden amongst the pages.

The door opened further and the woman stepped back. "Of course; please come in."

Felicity hopped over the threshold and into the foyer. "Oh thank you, I-" Come in? As in drip all over everything, and 'everything' probably consisted of very expensive pieces of furniture and ornate adornments.

She whirled around to find the door was already being closed behind her. The same woman peered at her with some concern at the deer in the headlights look.

"I'm dripping."

"It will be fine; this rug has weathered more than rain water in the past." With another kind smile the woman moved away from her. "I will inform Ivan, our butler and he will collect those papers from you. I'm afraid I know very little about business at Queen Consolidated."

 _So I'll just stand here on this rug. Awesome_. _Pretty sure a Harvard education isn't required for passing on a few papers_ "I-I'm Felicity." It just tumbled out, those sympathetic eyes and that melodic voice calling for it. "That's me. Er, my name. Felicity Smoak." Self-consciously she nudged her spectacles up her nose. "Hi." Then she waved like a loon, her coat sleeve covering most of her hand so only her fingers were visible.

If she hadn't known better she might have misconstrued the look in the woman's face to be that of someone charmed by her persona. Unfortunately Felicity knew from past experience that at best the woman was surprised by this wet, babbling loser and as she offered her a hand to shake, the one not holding a file before remembering said hand was soaked, she saw the surprise grow into true bemusement. The hand offered dropped, an insecure head bob following as she pressed her lips together.

"My name is Raisa."

Trying to remain perfectly still so that as little water as possible fell onto a rug that was probably so far out of her price range she couldn't even glimpse the final zero had already begun to preoccupy her mind so by the time the maid, the housekeeper - now forever named Raisa – by the time _Raisa's_ words had computed with Felicity's brain the woman was already walking down the long hallway to her left, leaving Felicity standing there with an open mouth and a curious disposition.

 _So… Raisa. Right. Wonder if I'll ever need to use her name again._ And they were just going to leave her there without security? Maybe that was why they made her park her car so far away.

Blinking a little dementedly Felicity took a breath, brushing some of the wet hair plastered to her cheek aside – she didn't even want to think about what her ponytail looked like - and took a quick look about her person.

 _So this is the legendary Queen Mansion_ , she thought, heart racing in her chest like a teenager about to get caught stealing test answers, _where many a party was held._ This was true, at least according to scores of men and women online. Warm wooden panelling and flooring were the most obvious.

A streak of Lightning flashed behind her, coating her surroundings in a trick of platinum blue, making her think of phantoms and poltergeists. Then the sound of rain falling was all she could hear.

 _It's so quiet here._

Her eyes rolled. _Of course it's quiet; they're at dinner. Somewhere I really should be too if I don't want to wake up cranky._

But, as her gaze fell on the table not five feet in front of her she realised that the silence was swallowed by the adornments to be held. The memories shown. And they were as loud as a scream.

All around and across the surface of the small, circular, antique table were pictures of Mr Robert Queen and his son, Mr Oliver Queen. In some of the pictures they were joined by Mrs Queen and, who she guessed to be, Miss Thea Queen. One or two held shots of the 'Queen's Gambit. _How depressing_. Lamentations; a creepy memorial to the dead. This way no one, not a family member, friend, relation or acquaintance could ever forget the past.

And for a sick second she had the urge to just move it. All of it. Move it far away from the foyer so that the first thing seen by Oliver Queen wouldn't be a constant, instant reminder of the horror he'd been forced to live through. Even though he was a stranger to her, even if all he did in the past five years was eat coconuts and sun bathe, the sheer knowledge that he may never see any of his love ones again would be enough to drive most insane. And if not insane, in need of severe therapy and a bottle or a 1000 of Mr Jack D.

Shifting ever so slightly in an attempt to ease the sharpness of her growing curiosity and ignore the fact that being in the Queen mansion was making her feel increasingly jittery, she froze to attention when the casual drip drop of trickling water increased before hearing a substantial amount of rain water plop off the edge of her coat to the floor. Her eyes shut hard in exasperation at herself. At the fact that she was an awkward nerd who couldn't be graceful if her life depended on it.

Biting on her lower lip, a quick glance to the floor showed her that her feet had left a very soggy imprint in the lush carpet. _Frack!_

Then she remembered. _Tissues!_ She had some in her coat pocket. _Anything_ to help her not look like a misshapen vegetable, a wet rat, or dishevelled and very unimpressive banshee. Shoving the file underneath an armpit, she turned away from the stairs, facing the front door so that she could wipe her nose with impunity. There wasn't any point cleaning her spectacles, not with tissues. Tissues plus too much water equals split tissue. Hand delving into her pocket she grabbed the first object in there, her red pen, trapped it between her teeth, before diving right back in there-

-There was a very low, very quiet shift in the air, like the slight rustle of fabric in the wind. Barely detectable. But Felicity's ears were incredibly sharp. Twitching, her head jerked around. _Is it Ivan?_ She found herself squinting through the fog of on her lenses…

And almost dropped her file. Almost dropped… _everything._

And stared.

At **him**.

Emerging from that shadowed place near the corner of the entrance hall, his slow, methodical footsteps didn't make a sound and he took four of them to clear the staircase. Her mouth opened slowly and somehow her pen stayed well and truly in there. _Wow…_

 _Did they even make humans like that?_

And then the specimen of perfection spoke and she was lost.

"Who are you?"

A shiver of _something_ shot through her. _Okay, that is_ so _not fair._ Just three words but…

His voice was like liquid sex.

Not. A. Joke.

It was definitely that, but it was also _soft_. Soft in that deeply _masculine_ tenor that made 'soft' sound 'strong', sound _necessary_. It was smooth too. And slightly rough. His whisper could be heard above a shout.

She was about to answer when lightning flashed once again, fully revealing the face of the beguiling voice-

-Her eyes met with a wolf's.

The storm alternating his eyes from obscure azure irises to ice blue only increasing the focus of them fixed on her face, pupils large and dark in the storm's natural light there was a lethality to the way he was simply _looking_ at her. Because that's all he was doing, looking. But it was also in his stance, in the way he held himself: his posture would have made a Tibetan Monk cry. Straight backed, his broad – very broad – shoulders in alignment with his feet, fingers slightly furled into his palms, legs lean and taught…

She took a long breath and it rattled with nerves.

He was a predator.

And then just like that, because nerves and anxiety equalled talking/babbling Smoak, Felicity spoke - fast. "Felicity Queen." _MAJOR FRACK!_ "Smoak! Felicity Smoak, my name is _Felicity Smoak_!" She blamed her surroundings utterly and completely.

But he didn't react. At all. Except to blink. _Once_. He was still, like a machine. "Do you… know my family? Are you a friend?"

There was a tiny note of wariness in his tone; a hesitance that came with unfamiliarity. As if he didn't know much about the Queen's, as if he…

 _Wait._

The memory of a photo on a desk shortly after she'd started working at QC. Foppish, dirty blonde hair falling over vain blue eyes, faultless skin and a jawline to match his slim build, the arrogant expression that spoke money, talent, and good looks making him a general shot of life.

 _Oh._

At first she hesitated, hand coming up in a series of jerks before she pulled off her glasses. Covered in water as they were, she never really needed them anyway. The moment they came down from her face she froze.

 _That kind of change should be impossible._

He stood there reeking masculinity and awareness, hair cut short, almost to the scalp, he wore that pale blue sweater over a buttoned up shirt and a pair of jeans that, if she stuck a penny in the back pocket of, she could tell which side it was up. They were tight. He wore them _perfectly_.

Her eyes briefly flickered back to them when he moved forwards another step, slowly once again like a skulking wolf, the fabric shifting very, _um_ , well, with him. He had the audacity to look unfairly amazing when she was looking like she'd lost a fight with a rain cloud, _so_ amazing that she was staring at him like some zoo attraction but, _hadn't he just spent five years on an island?_

 _He wasn't supposed to look like that._ He was supposed to look like… like he'd spent five years being slowly malnourished, being weathered by the cold, by an alien sun and monsoons, being eaten by foreign insects, being alone and forgotten.

Physically he was an Adonis.

And it just came out, _loudly_. "You're Oliver Queen."

His brow moved slightly. "I know I am."

There was this undercurrent of complete control about his person. A control that should have unnerved her being in the presence of a complete stranger, someone that had every right to be insane and totally happy about it. But instead she just felt relief. His behaviour _was_ a reaction. The way he moved was a development; the _real_ sign that he'd been through his own personal hell. It was proof that he was **scarred**.

But realising all this did nothing to escape the fact that she was making an ass out of herself as she bumbled on. "I-I know who you are!" She smiled like the little frustrated nerd she was as a drop of water slipped down her cleavage. "You're Mr Queen." _Of course he knows who he is! And in case he doesn't I just told him! He's probably wondering who the hell I am._

Lost in her own head she swallowed when she realised he was already closer. A hand in one jean pocket – _girls would kill to be that hand_ – the other placed what looked like a pear on that circular table. He stood side on, completely dismissing her presence for a moment but this way she could watch the display of muscle underneath two layers, something in his frame making her think that he was incredibly well built - more so than others might expect. She could watch as those eyes of his took in the assortment of pictures and she remembered the feeling of wanting to remove them, realising they really had been the first thing he'd seen.

Blue eyes flashed back to hers. "'Mr Queen' was my father." He took a breath before facing her fully. "I'd prefer not to be called that."

She nodded quickly. "Of course, since he's dead."

 _And I'm fired._

 _God why? Why did you grant me a vocal cord, words to utter and a mouth to speak them with?_

"I mean he drowned!" He wasn't moving, just staring at her. "But _you_ didn't." His slightly widened eyes – _oh smeg_ \- taking in every inch of her face as she floundered about, hoping the ground beneath her would swallow her whole. "Which was why you could be here right now…" She took a shaky breath. "Listening to me babble." Then swallowed again, turning away at the sounds of steps coming from down the hall. "Which will end, like my dignity…" She closed her eyes. "In three, two, one."

She counted a breath, then two before bravely taking a peek at him.

There was this _smile_ on his face. It was small, so small, barely there but it did something brilliant to his eyes that, apart from the incredulity quietly displayed there, made something deep down in there lighten. The rest of the muscles of his face weren't moving but it was still there. _Thank god_. She bit her lip and he observed it.

"Miss Smoak?"

 _And there's that._ Striding into view a middle aged man with a long nose and an extremely unreceptive venire looked her over before stopping as he sighted on Oliver Queen. "Good evening sir."

"Hey Ivan." And something just happened to his face, a shift that boggled her brain cells. The unaffected expression he'd been sporting earlier and the smile that had almost transformed him slipped and a lighter look of complete friendliness entered. His lips pressed together.

Felicity stared. It was totally **fake**. His eyes were _lifeless_. Flat. Worse than before even. Maybe she could see it because he'd just given her a hint of what real life looked like in the eyes of a man such as himself but the transition was a shock.

But then 'Ivan' put his attention back on her again and she was forced to drop that train of thought. "Mr Steele is currently in the middle of dinner; you'll have to wait until he's finished."

The way he said it… it made her feel like her presence was utterly unacceptable.

Her head was already shaking –she would not look at Mr Queen- but a shot of indignation and embarrassment went through her regardless. _It isn't like I'm doing this for myself._ "No, I really don't want to interrupt Mr Steele." _Didn't they already know this? I don't even want to be here right now._ "I'd prefer it if I could just leave this for him to look over later." Her tone flat she almost forced the file into Mr Ivan's surprised hands. "That way I don't have to keep dripping on your very nice carpet."

The look Ivan gave her after seeing the state of said flooring made her want to curl up and die. Just a little. It made her _talk_. "Well if you hadn't made me park just outside the gate then maybe I wouldn't be offending you with my presence." She shrugged, ignoring the set of alarms blasting in her head at the fact that she was insulting the Queen family staff, _directly_ in front of the Queen heir and continued. "But you _did_ and I _am_ and now there's nothing we can do about it." She pointed a soggy finger at the file, Mr Ivan's mouth was open in shock. "He needs to see that: it's important." She reiterated. "He has a meeting in the morning that make those notes essential." Oliver Queen's presence in the mansion may have explained why Walter had forgotten them in the first place.

Clearing her throat she nodded to herself, her nerves getting to her again now that she'd spoken her mind. Licking her lips she glanced anxiously at said individual to find him watching her like before but there was no derision there. No judgement. Honestly, it was like he was trying to make her out.

She made an attempt to say a goodbye towards the puzzling stranger that was Mr Queen, offering him a hand before snatching it back like a fool: she'd forgotten that she was still very much wet.

"I-I'll just be…" Her hands did something that was supposed to be a point towards the front doors but ended up making her look like she was juggling an invisible set of balls, _oh God_. "…Going now."

She turned and walked fast, hands reaching the brass handles in moments. In less than an hour she'd be curled up on her sofa with her mint chip, ready to forget all about this. _Until tomorrow anyway_.

She stepped outside gazing into the thunder storm beyond the canopy. The weather had gotten worse, great puddles of water already filling the slight nooks on the pavement.

 _Oh good._ Just what she needed. _Great. Joyous._ Her good deed was done for night and she was rewarded with this. She'd say it couldn't get any worse but, speaking from experience, she knew that it really could. Looking morosely up at the black sky she muttered to herself. "I should have worn different shoes…"

"Are you going home?"

"Whoa!"

Quiet. _So quiet_.

Twisting around she staggered back, stumbling right into the rain and wind. He'd been so silent. Eyes flying up the stone steps she saw him, leaning with one foot in and one foot out of the doorway, watching her wobble. "Mr Queen!"

"Miss Smoak." He turned from her, closing the doors, the sound of them clicking shut louder than she remembered. Then he proceeded to saunter towards her down the stairs.

 _Buh… what?_ She took a breath, belatedly noticing that he was wearing his coat. _What's going on?_ "Is everything alright?"

Planting himself on the last step he replied. "I was wondering if you were going home." Straight-backed, looking so much taller than he had in doors, his blue eyes flickered over her – from her hair to her heeled shoes that were now completely freezing – her hunched shoulders from the downpour and squinty eyes probably making her look more than a little comical. For some reason it had him moving out from _under_ the cover of a brick archway as he finished. " _Or_ if you were open to alternatives." He stilled about two feet away from her.

She blinked at him.

"Would you mind stopping somewhere along the way?" He asked again, totally unruffled and getting wetter by the second.

 _401 error. Brain does not compute._ "What-" Felicity shook her head to clear it. "Are you asking me for a lift? You do realise you're getting soaked?" She gestured behind him. "You should get out of the rain."

He stood there as if it didn't even bother him; his eyes didn't even squint. "I'm fine and only If you've got time." Ignoring her brilliant open mouthed fish impersonation he glanced away towards the end of the path. "Is your car down there? I don't know why Ivan told you to keep it there."

"Probably because I don't come with a title attached." Trying to catch up she'd brashly spoken the truth, her mouth snapping shut when his eyes caught hers once again. "Not that I mind getting soaked. I like to get wet." She flinched. "I mean wetter than usual." _Not again._ "Not that I'm always wet; I'm usually pretty dry- because of the weather! Contrary to the meteorological conditions shown on the news it does not rain 24/7 in Starling City." _Mostly._

His lips pressed together with the muscles in his jaw flexing, an inclination, once again that he was unperturbed and possibly amused by her verbal incontinence. "I know what you meant. And I'm sorry. For the way Ivan spoke to you just now."

 _Wow._ "I-it's fine." Oliver Queen: completely overwhelming. She smiled, trying to show him he had nothing to worry about. The fact that he had, even a little, floored her. "Really."

He didn't say anything except to nod. Then he just looked at her, waiting. Eyes taking him in a breathless laugh escaped her. It was ridiculous. They were just talking, standing there, getting drenched but not moving regardless. _Oh come on, how bad could it be?_

Making her mind up she hopped on one leg slipping off, slipping off a shoe and then the other, grimacing when her feet sank back down into a couple of centimetres of water.

She caught his frown, peering up at him as he spoke. "What are you-"

Shoes in hand she shook them at him. "I can't run in these." She edged away from him before turning, making the same mad dash towards her car as she did earlier; this time with her feet unencumbered. "Come on!"

Water splashed at her legs but it didn't matter; they were already wet. Her feet were freezing but she felt, just for a moment, so very free. Like a child skipping merrily down the lane. Smiling, she didn't look back to see if he'd followed. He might have decided to _not_ go with the crazy lady making a footless sprint towards her car. The gate opened for her automatically, which was great really, _I mean making a jump over that metal trap in this skirt?_ Sighing in relief at the sight of her red Toyota she ran around it, reaching for the handle and only then looking up.

He wasn't there.

He hadn't followed.

 _Oh…_ Staring into the darkness it confused her to find that she actually felt a little disappointed. But maybe he was just lagging behind. Maybe malnutrition really had gotten to him, though those impressive thighs would tell otherwise. She yelled out. "Mr Queen?"

"Side door or back door?"

 _Geez!_ Behind her once again, his head was tilted sideways as he looked from the car to her when she whipped round to face him.

"Passenger side!" She shouted back reactively, wide eyed, and then bit the inside of her cheek in an attempt to muffle the laugh that threatened to spill.

There was an appreciative light in his eyes again, his voice louder to be heard over the thunder. "Do you normally run without shoes in the rain?"

"Why yes I do! Do you normally scare unsuspecting girls during the night hours as she's attempting to get into her car?"

"Depends on what day it is." He replied with an indolent shoulder roll she assumed was a shrug. They were both cheerfully ignoring the fact that he hadn't been near civilisation for the past five years.

Exasperated, but still smiling, she shook her head, rainwater flying everywhere. "Get into the car Mr Queen."

"Thought I told you not to call me that!" He shouted back over the din as he moved to the other side of the vehicle.

She pulled at the handle to her side, eyes shooting to him, to the car, the ground, the mansion and back again. "So… Oliver, then?"

He paused mid-entry to his seat and met her eyes; his were the most serious she'd seen them so far. "Yes. Oliver." Said so quietly she barely heard it over the water hitting the car he continued. "Call me Oliver."

 _Right. Oliver. Oliver Queen. Okay then._ Slipping inside the vehicle she slammed the door shut, sighing in appreciation of its cover. "Oliver."

Said person turned her way, a bit perplexed and the bag of fruit he must have lifted before sitting in his grip making a bustle noise as he moved. His eyes asked the question.

She shrugged. "Just trying it out again." _Because I just can't help what comes out of my mouth. And because it's a far better alternative to 'Ollie'._ Reaching behind her she grasped a throw from the back seat and passed it to him. "You're soaked."

He took it. "So are you."

"Ah, but I'm driving." She put the car in reverse and they, _finally_ , pulled out of the Queen Drive.

What was so very strange however was that, as the looming mansion turned small in the rear view mirror (she tried to avoid looking at herself there because really her appearance was hideous right now), Oliver Queen seemed to lose some of the tension in his shoulders that she hadn't even known had been present. She heard him take a slow, deep breath but he still sat straight-backed, almost militaristic, in the seat to her right, his cool gaze aimed at the surroundings in which he found himself. The very empty surroundings; the inside of her car was pristine, hiding its old age (6 years and she hadn't bought it new) and without any adornments one might normally expect in the car of a woman who traditionally wore bright colours and lipstick. Hiding from his calculative eyes her gaze finally caught her own reflection: _I look like something the cat dragged in._

The thought was more ironic than she cared to admit.

She focused on something else. This was a man she'd only just met, a man who'd only yesterday returned from a five year stretch in the China seas, a man she wouldn't have met if a moment of altruism and loyalty hadn't forced her to confront the Queen Mansion in all its pretty scary glory.

And she was just going to drive away with him? _When did that ever happen in real life?_

 _Then again, since when is my life a normal one?_

Something felt different tonight. She knew: it was in that whisper of a thrill where things previously normal and known changed to the 'new'. The 'unknown'. The ' _right'_. And the 'wanted'.


	3. Chapter 3

' **Glades' as Irony**

 _I should have thought this through…_

It was so silent in the car.

She briefly considered thrumming her fingers against the steering wheel but the juvenile show of nerves was immediately annihilated. She didn't want him to think she was rattled. She _totally_ was, but broadcasting it wasn't an option for some reason. It had just hit her, what they were doing. He'd only just returned home and here she was, basically kidnapping him - _well that wasn't exactly accurate, not with him being so persistent with his eyes and his skin_ – a total stranger. It felt like she should be made culpable for something. Even if part of her was very fine with the whole thing. _Never said I was normal._

The idea of putting on some music hit her briefly until she considered that it might not be received well, with his lack of knowledge and well, everything else.

Lack of knowledge… _he probably didn't even know how to work a smartphone. Poor guy._

Then again, he might not even care about things like music. So no music.

She took a deep breath as her car flew down the almost empty road. This lane wasn't used often by the city's civilians. The sound of rain hitting solid objects was usually one of the most soothing sounds Felicity had ever heard. She may not like getting wet, may not like the rain too much in itself, but the noise it made was one that normally soothed her. _Normally_.

And **he** wasn't helping. At all.

Instead, it was as if the _silence_ was what calmed him.

Oliver Queen didn't talk, didn't offer any kind of conversational branch to grab onto with both mind and mouth, no, instead he fixed his gaze out of the front window, watching the rain make a tide of water flood off the wipers. He looked _completely_ at ease in her very humble car, giving no indication at all that this whole experience was awkward as hell for her: but there was something about his physique, about the way he held himself that reminded her of a caged animal. Again, a captive wolf. There was no aura of 'come near me and you'll regret it' or anything. It was just… _something_.

Like his guard, which felt constantly raised. Or his watchful eyes that scoped _everything_ in his path.

And occasionally he'd look at her too, briefly, a flicker of blue before flashing away leaving an ambiguous azure streak against the black of her lids when she met them. He really wasn't at all what she expected to find in a man just returned from the dead. There was already a list:

He appeared to be a gentleman. Physically… the word beautiful didn't do him justice. There was a 'quietness' to him and a lethality that leaned towards that raw instinctive quality you only gleamed from men in big screen productions. The kind of men that reek testosterone but manage to do something useful with it other than throw it egotistically at girls, preen with friends and challenge other men. It was subdued in Oliver Queen but definitely there. He was all this at first sight.

 _Did I mention he was also a little odd? Because, really, he wants to go where?_

"The _Glades_?"

"Yes."

She couldn't have been hearing him right. Her eyes flickered to and from the road ahead of her and his stoic face. "You want me to take you to the Glades?"

"Yes." He didn't bat an eyelid.

 _He comes back from a five year stint on a deserted island and the first thing he wants to do is take a merry skip down serial killer highway?_ Mouth opening, then closing she swallowed and nodded – _there must be something wrong with me too_. "Um, alright. Let's do that."

For several seconds he watched her. "Just like that."

 _Apparently._ "Er, yes?"

There was a moment of silence.

"…Okay."

Cautious in how long she didn't keep her eyes on the road Felicity took him in. He'd let out a deep exhale with that one, quiet word. A breath that spoke many sentences, hidden meanings she couldn't quite grasp at. It threw her a little but the way he suddenly settled further into the seat made her think she'd done or said the right thing, whatever that was.

Mollified, though she had no idea what she needed to be placated about anyway, she nodded once, slowly. "Okay." Accelerating she gestured a hand in his general vicinity. "You know you…" Briefly catching his eyes again her words stuttered to a halt – _he really is intense_ – and had to swallow before trying again. _Geez._ "You don't have to hold onto that bag; just throw it in the back." Suddenly remembering something she hashed forwards. "But if you want you can have some of the fruit! You were holding a pear in there right? I can only imagine the kind of diet you've been on in the past five years; fruit is probably the closest approximation to what you might have been used… to…"

Already looking at her, eyes like ice didn't blink – not the whole time she'd been babbling.

It was very possible she had a serious case of foot in mouth disease.

 _Did I seriously just bring that up? What it wrong with me? Like he wants to be immediately reminded of THAT. He's been in the City for a day. A DAY Felicity. I should just pull over and find some place to go die already. I wouldn't be surprised if he actually tried to get out of the car while I'm driving-_

"Some fruits. Plants. It was the taste more than anything. Bitter, sometimes bland." His voice very matter of fact, Oliver fished a pear out of the plastic bag brushing a thumb over its sandy hide. "Very cold."

"I-I didn't mean to-"

He bit into it, studying the pear as he slowly chewed before swallowing. Everything he'd done so far was a careful, precise action. "It's ripe."

 _And ripe means good?_ By the remote look on his face it could have meant anything; he was difficult to read. "0h, y-yeah I…"

"Thank you."

She found herself smiling and nodding along with her brain in small relief. "I spend a lot of time making sure I get the best ones. The persimmons are my favourites after the pears. It's actually all about the colour: vibrant greens and oranges. Nature and sunsets. There's this store down on Amellton…"

And on she prattled, babbling sometimes inanely, other times efficiently, from one topic to another, a blush sprouting here or there. Her way of expressing nerves. It didn't matter that he barely said five words through it all; he seemed very comfortable just listening.

Learning.

Whether she saw it or not she was effectively telling him small 'to-knows' about the city without him having to ask. Re-introducing him to Starling.

* * *

 **Queen Mansion**

Preoccupied, he spoke without fully meaning to. "It's strange."

"What is?" Wine glass in hand Moira glanced at him when he didn't immediately answer. "Walter?"

He couldn't explain it. "This… sudden interest he has in the company." But really, how sudden could it be when they hadn't spoken to the man in five years? "In the past he never showed any inclination towards Queen Consolidated. Yet it's the first thing he wants to do now that he's back?"

His frown, his apprehensive tone was lost on Moira Queen who was too lost in her own thoughts to focus on him. "Maybe he craves normalcy."

"Exactly. When has taking an interest in the company ever been 'normal' for Oliver?"

A good question, but one that was dismissed immediately. "I want my son to reclaim his life as soon as possible. Have the lawyers here tomorrow." She said effectively ending the discussion.

Nothing but the best for her son. Her beautiful boy. Returning against all odds. And he still was, but…

What she didn't mention to Walter was how much her son had unnerved her tonight, sitting across from her at the opposite end of the dining room table.

For a moment the man she'd looked at wasn't someone she recognised, wasn't the playful, coquettish boy she remembered. The cool blue gaze had been foreign and his unblinking stare intrusive. _He'd been so still, hadn't slouched and didn't lean like he use to_ … the things she most remembered about her son stole past her eyes and this new face didn't appear amongst them. Where had her special boy gone? Where was his charming smile and youthful haircut, hair that now resembled military functioning? Why wasn't he asking for Laurel? Why did he suddenly seem so much taller than before? She didn't understand. And realised that maybe she didn't want to.

…because then his gaze had softened again and Ollie resurfaced. He was still in there. Just a little confused about his place in the world now. And she would remind him of it, to stay. Oliver Queen had returned home, the heir apparent who would one day stand where Robert had been. A piece of her life had been returned to her.

They had all lost so much… she didn't want to think about it anymore. Seeing Oliver again forced her to realise how much she pushed herself to _not_ remember. And in the hospital the previous night her son had held her, had kept her standing for a long time before the doctor had stated he'd needed rest.

But Moira had missed the tension in his shoulders, the fact that he hadn't truly smiled, not once.

Instead she considered that maybe now she could really have it all. To have her children, both of them, safe from harm, safe from _him_ , once and for all. All it would take was a little extra time, some more effort; collateral damage was inevitable, but it was a form of destruction she'd already come to terms with a long time ago… it was payable. Regardless of the lives involved.

* * *

 **The Glades, Old Manufacturer's District**

What was once the main manufacturer's district in Starling was now a dead end; a home for drug users and the literal vagrants of the city.

And right in the centre of what had been decreed by many to be a cesspool, was Queen's Industrial Shipping Factory – huge, run down, damp, dirty and haunted by memories the label was written in bold, peeling paint across the back side of the building. A building that stood miserable and decrepit, depicting well the tale of depression the Glades had suffered through in the past decade. It stood silently and burnt out before Felicity Smoak, behind a large bolted, wire fence and gate.

She remembered reading about it online: **'** **Queen's Industrial Shipping Factory closed down – the final death blow for the Glades. Is there any hope left?'** The papers had screamed about its closure, a cessation that occurred, _coincidentally_ , just a few weeks before Robert Queen had left on the Queen's Gambit, never to return.

And now his son was sitting in Felicity Smoak's car, staring at the forlorn structure, face hidden from her eyes.

"This is the place, right?" She had no doubt that it was but he was being even more silent now than before, if that was at all possible.

He didn't reply – shocker - she could see his breath fog up the windscreen in front of his face. Looking out through his window and past the still heavily pouring rain, though she kept her distance, she pulled in a breath. "It looks really… depressing."

He turned suddenly to look back at her and she was once again reminded how very predacious he seemed. How still. It should have troubled her, scared her even. But it didn't. For reasons.

When he suddenly _moved_ , stepping out of the car and into the rain Felicity scrambled after him. "Oliver?" Slamming her door shut she made her way round to him as stood, peering at the factory. There was virtually no one else around.

"So I was wondering…" He suddenly started saying and gestured ahead as she blinked (squinted) at him. "How well would you react if I jumped the fence and took a look inside?"

 _What?_ "Why?"

"For… posterity."

Eyebrow cocked, voice raised over the rain, she gave him an even look. "You mean how well I'd react if my boss's son jumped a three metre tall fence to get into an abandoned factory with God knows what lurking in the corners? Knowing that at some point, if you did get hurt, your mother would find out? _After_ discovering, of course, that I am the person who drove you there in the first place? The person who, despite what her brain and pay check is telling her, will inevitably _not_ take you home until you actually want to go?"

He had the audacity to nod, sucking in his wet lips in thought. "That's what I thought."

Completely out of her comfort zone she shook her head. "That's what you thought? Wait, what are you-"

In between words Oliver Queen sprint over to the fence. Using some crates just catching wood rot as spring boards, he hurdled to the top of said fence, gripping tightly as he wound his body over the rim before dropping gracefully down to the other side.

 _Motherfu-!_ Admittedly this was the last thing she'd expected to have to deal with. _So he was an athlete now? Did he spend his time on the island swinging through trees like a jungle gym? And this is soooo not what I should be focused on._ She rushed forwards, shouting at him like she'd known him for years instead of minutes as he straightened up. "Oliver Queen, are you trying to get me fired?! I mean you could have at least told me what you were about to do before you hurdled the giant tetanus shot just waiting to happen!"

Really smiling now, though it was still quite a small thing, at her hand-on-hips tone he seemed to be supremely unaffected by, well, anything at all. "Wait for me. I'll be back in a minute."

"As if I'd leave now." She muttered, looking at him through the fence holes. "And I can't come with you because…?"

Oddly enough, he did a double take at the question and frowned at her as the rain continued to pour droplets down his face. His eyes searched for something but she didn't understand what it was.

"What?"

In a strange little carefree motion his head swerved slightly to his left. "If you can actually get over the fence in that skirt, you're welcome to join me." She blushed as he shook his head and could barely see his features in the rain filled dark but something about the tilt of his brow made her think he found the idea kind of funny. "You should get back in the car." He shouted, hopping back, turning to jog further into the recesses of what looked more like a warehouse than a factory. "I won't be long!"

Pursing her lips she stood there, feeling a little foolish.

 _You should get back in the car._

Right.

The car.

Hesitating briefly - _for god sakes! –_ she stalked back to her beloved Toyota, exhaling noisily as she got into the seat. _Well this is going super. It's his first day back; what if he gets hurt in there? The place is old, dark and a mess, it's a recipe for disaster!_ She closed her eyes against her thoughts but it didn't quell the whisper in her ear, the one she desperately tried to ignore and normally succeeded. On a daily basis.

Except for today it seemed.

 _Oliver Queen. Everything about him. The old Queen factory in the Glades, left for dead for five years; it would never be a home for 30, 000 employees again. His father had barely stepped foot in the place before leaving so being a memento of the elder Queen was very much out of the question… so why now? Why here? What was so important about this place?_

 _Stay in the car._

Her eyes opened, watching the rain, sweeping about her and taking in the closed up shops and barred windows that hadn't been touched in years. As shuttered and shielded as those blues eyes she kept seeing when she closed her own.

She couldn't stand mysteries. She'd built her life around solving them. This was far too interesting to just… wait out. "Frack it all."

 _And here I thought all I'd be doing tonight was eating ice cream and watching Netflix._

* * *

 **Queen's Industrial Shipping Factory**

She had wire cutters. _A fact Mr Queen would have known if he'd just waited a moment or two._

Making sure to keep the gap in the wire fence as closed and as near to the brick wall as humanely possible, she kept the cuts severely neat. _It isn't exactly my first rodeo._ At a glance it would pass judgement. She'd pinch them back together later. After slipping through she trotted up the tarmac slope heading towards the main building (there were several other constructions).

Problem. There was more than one door. And by more than one door she meant more than one of the many possibly entries. There was a door, metal, on two sides of the building and at the main access point of the dead factory, a traditional roller door. It wasn't open so she figured he hadn't gone that way. There were a set of stairs as well that led to a more than intimidating structure that she wasn't altogether thrilled about exploring in the dark and in her skirt. Opting instead to dodge around the graffiti covered walls and garbage Felicity ducked around a corner and found a set of shattered slates in a heap on the ground. Like _someone_ had kicked them in and broken them away from the now very clear, very fragile looking wooden door swinging on its hinges. There was no lock and the handle was non-existent.

 _Okay then._ Stepping out of the rain she half hopped, half stumbled into the interior where she blinked away water and wished very much that she wasn't wearing soaked glasses.

"Is the part where the big axe wielding psychopath comes out of the dark with a hockey mask and tries to kill me? The big axe wielding psycho being Oliver Queen and me being, well, me."

The place was _huge_ ; as big inside as it was outside. Cavernous, every movement she made sparked the smallest noise that echoed dimly in the hollow, dank environment. There were gaps in the walls and in some places where no walls existed at all; here she could see the rain fall. There were so many places to hide and go seek, if she were even remotely inclined to do so that is. Plenty of nooks and crannies, holes and hallways that she could get lost in…

She couldn't see him in the open space before her. She took a few steps in, focusing her vision as her eyes grew quickly accustomed to the lack of light-

And of course _that's_ when her phone just had to ring shrilly.

With a yelp her hands were fumbling in her pocket, fingers pulling out her 'Catastrophe' phone cover (seriously, with cats and everything) and smartphone. "Hello?"

" _Miss Smoak?"_

The distinguished voice on the other end of the line could hardly be misplaced.

She closed her eyes. "Mr Steel?"

" _Felicity, you don't happen to have Oliver with you by any chance?"_

 _Frack it to death!_ "Er… there's really no good way for me to answer that question is there sir?" She wondered for a moment how he even had her number before remembering that he had access to all his employees' personal data, including the number of the mobile currently in her grasp.

" _Felicity…"_

"Yes sir; he's here." She eyed her surroundings with a frown. "Somewhere."

" _I'm sorry?"_

 _So am I._ "Never mind. He's with me." She flinched. "I meant he's here _with_ me, as in _near_ me, not _with me_ -with me…"

" _I Understand."_ Oh, she really hoped he did _. "It's just that…"_ She heard him sigh and knew by the shuffling noise that he was walking. _"Moira's frantic. When he left in the middle of dinner we thought he'd gone upstairs to his room. But then Ivan told me you'd stopped by the mansion and I put two and two together."_

"He asked for a lift. I'm sorry for any trouble sir."

" _It's quite alright. I'm just surprised at his behaviour. The last thing we expected to happen was for him run away less than a day after being home."_

Her mouth opened then closed. _Really?_ It seemed like an odd thing to say, at least to her. "I don't see why that's so surprising." Okay, so she really hadn't though it through before speaking. She practically face planted at that slip.

" _What do you mean?"_

 _Great, now he asking me._ "Well…" She was a stranger to the Queens; it felt more than a little bizarre to be commentating on something so personal. _You've put your foot in it now, might as well go the full mile._ "Sir, there isn't exactly a precedent for this." With one wet hand in her coat pocket she started to slowly rotate on the spot: the echo of far off thunder and the pounding of rain on wood, mortar and brick was soothing the all-around gloomy atmosphere of the foundry. But apparently she liked haunted and gothic; her shoulders weren't as tense as before. "He's spent five years alone and away from _everything_." Whatever 'everything' encompassed. "Just from the elapsed time by itself I'd have to wonder if anybody would be or act the same way as they once did." She turned again. "Expectations aren't really going to help with him."

And by 'him' she meant the guy standing not five feet away from her.

She jumped, of course she did, when she found him there at the end of her turn. "O-oh!"

Illuminated by a strike of lightning, Oliver stood silently under the shadows a large beam created. He didn't lean, didn't make a sound, didn't pull an expression, didn't try to hide the fact that he'd sneaked up on her, that he'd been standing right behind her and had moved with her as she'd moved; he didn't do anything. Except watch her with that reticent gaze, almost aloof. Cold even.

 _Himself?_

" _Felicity?"_

Blinking so sporadically she resembled an owl she stared, a little petrified as a brow arched on the face of the stranger. "I'm here!" Her eyes screamed at the man 'what should I do?' But he just _stood_ there like a giant bean. Albeit, looking somewhat… reluctant?

"E-er…"

" _Miss Smoak, is everything alright?"_

"Yes! Of course it is! I mean, why wouldn't it be?"

" _Well, I'm not sure…"_

A little nervous laugh escaped her.

" _Anyway,"_ Walter continued, seeming to possess the startling ability to adapt utterly and truly to anything he didn't fully understand, _"Is there any chance you'll be bringing back to the mansion soon?"_

"Back to the mansion?" As her eyes had never left his figure, Felicity caught the small flicker, that shadow of a doubt in his brow and the pull of the muscles in his jaw. And for some reason she wasn't telling Mr Steel that he was directly in front of her as they spoke. Reading him she made a split second, instinctive decision.

"…No. Not yet." Speaking slowly in case she got it completely wrong she watched Oliver for any sign of aversion to this. There was none. "He asked me to… take him into the city, see the sights, and reacquaint himself with his er, home." To see the changes. Watching her, his eyes flickered away momentarily before a small, short nod told her everything she needed to know. "If it's too late when we're finished," she bit her lip, _I can't believe I'm going to say this._ "He can stay at my place and I'll drive him back in the morning, though I'm _very_ sure he can more than take care of himself!"

Oliver's brow rose again.

She waved a frantic hand at his body as if to say, _'well, hello; you have the body of Jean Claude Van Dam… only better. So much better. And I've never even seen you shirtless; I just have a wonderfully graphic imagination'_. All assumption based.

His lips pressed together.

There was a quiet exhale down the line. _"Alright. I'll talk to Moira-"_

 _Oh no._ " _Please_ don't mention me by name Mr Steele."

" _Don't worry; I won't. You're trying to do the right thing."_ Once again, she found herself overwhelmed by her luck that she'd found herself such an understanding, if slightly stiff, boss. _"I trust you."_

"Thank you sir."

Hanging up she grimaced at the wet mess she'd made of her cell before plunging it back into the relative safety of her coat.

"How did you get over the gate?"

Looking back at Oliver she found he'd taken a step forwards. Now in arms reach. He looked so very intrigued.

She shucked a piece of wet hair away from her face. "I have a wire cutter." ' _I carried a watermelon.' Geez._

"A wire cutter." He said it slowly.

"Uh huh." It was one of those times she'd wished she would just babble but found that she couldn't for some strange reason.

"Do you normally carry a wire cutter?"

 _Yes._ She nodded. "In the back of my car." Then shrugged at his eyebrow raise. "What?"

He shook his head, a breathy sound escaping him but not one she was familiar with. "Nothing."

Lightning flashed again revealing them both as wet, dishevelled and in general, a little lost as to what to do next.

"Um, so…" Felicity gestured behind her, towards the creaky door. "Are you done here or..?"

He nodded, looking about him. "I'm done here." Though she gave him a few moments he didn't elaborate as to what he'd been doing. Which was fine. Not that she was burning with curiosity or anything. Nope. Secrets made her a little nutty. Seriously though; he'd been back a day. Suspicious behaviour _should_ be at the top of the list of his social composure.

She cleared her throat. "Is there anywhere else you want to go?"

"Where do you live?" He immediately replied, eyes still on his surroundings.

 _If my brain carries out another 404 error I'm going to lose all ability to function like a person_. "I uh, I live near here actually." _Sort of._ Was she really considering bringing him home with her?

The sentence made her want to stammer.

She trailed off, watching as he nodded once again, seemingly enamoured by something she couldn't see in the darkness beyond where he'd stepped through.

Every second she spent with guy increased his mystery, which wasn't good. Not for her.

She licked her lips. "You know, when this place shut down the paperwork was done right." Finally he looked back at her, obviously very confused if the frown was anything to go by. "Partnerships were liquidated. Contracts were terminated, employees were let go of, albeit without severance…"

A ripple of what she could only describe – she didn't know the man - as an instance of anger silenced her. _Whoa_. It was gone directly but she hastily backtracked. "What I mean to say is that whatever this place is worth, and it won't be much, it's in the hands of a realtor now who'd probably be more than happy to be rid of it." She didn't even know why she was saying all this. "If you'd like I could get his or her name for you."

She quieted, waiting for a response, whether it be a puzzled frown, an arrogant look (he was super rich, he could afford whatever he wanted), or a baffled expression. Anything. The entire situation was so surreal she had trouble processing what was happening and who it was happening with. So she didn't think. It was almost peaceful, not thinking. She hadn't 'not thought' in years.

Oliver Queen made her 'not think'. Hah.

When he eventually looked at her again he shifted so she could see almost nothing of his eyes in the dark, except the glint of his pupils. He was silent for several seconds, as if debating which question to ask first: 'why would I want to buy this place?' 'What are you talking about?' 'Do you normally as your boss's, bosses boss these kinds of questions?'

Instead he said, with a puzzling expression of solemnity: "I'll think about it."

It was her that nodded this time. She'd move more but the cold was seeping through her coat. "So I know this probably wasn't what you had in mind but would it be okay if we stopped someplace first?"

Like the Little Bird: he'd eaten all of her pears and when he'd tried a persimmon he'd finished it with the relish of a typically hungry male. Meaning he inhaled it in seconds. She'd tried, hard, not to watch him do this, _his mouth was, er_ … not that she'd gotten a good enough look or anything since she'd forced herself to stare out the front screen.

But seeing how fast he'd managed to eat the simple produce reminded her that it was one of the softer fruits, easier on the stomach and had offered him another.

She was out of fruit. It needed to be rectified.

He didn't seem to be bothered by the idea either. As if he wasn't sure which reaction was the right reaction, as if he'd learned how to mask each tell and every nuance. Five years on an island without a mirror might do that to a person. And this person was still very much a stranger to her, just as she must be to him.

Out of nowhere a wave of compassion - _or was it empathy? Sympathy?_ \- hit her. Unhinging her mouth as she took him in. "Honestly, more than anything else I would want to be away from people. I-I mean," licking her lips, her head automatically tilted sideways against her shoulder as she shrugged her reasoning. "If it were me, if _I_ were _you_ … I'd want to have the company of just me, myself and I." She'd seen Castaway after all. Too many people, a too crowded city. "Too many people with no room to breathe or think or something, I mean I could be wrong." _Shutting up now._

'Floored' was a good word to describe how he looked. He opened his mouth… then closed it. And did nothing. If 'nothing' meant that he lowered his gaze to the floor, eyes flickering to and fro as if objectifying his thoughts.

 _He's not saying anything._ Alarm fluttered in her chest. "What I meant to say is that-"

"I'm fine. And you'd get fired." He said suddenly, hands sliding into his pockets.

The bridge of her nose crinkled and furrowed. "Huh?"

"If you left me alone in the Glades at night." A deep breath made him shudder somewhat and there was a flash of distaste on his face when he finally looked back at her. "I'd rather not be treated like a child but in the interest of not starting a panic, maybe we should just go with it."

She bit her lip. "I'm sorry."

The uplift to his lips was melancholic. "Don't be. It's me who's being forced on you after all."

 _I wouldn't quite put it like that. You knew exactly what you were doing when you asked me for a ride…_

* * *

 **Arrowhead Point, North Glades, off Tudor's Way… 21:16pm**

She figured it was telling that Mr Queen, a man who was technically Felicity's boss and, if nothing else, incredibly attractive, was the very first individual to be invited – regardless of whether coercion played a part in it – to her apartment. Her house. Her home.

A placed she'd lived in for over two years. _This is a story I'm never telling anyone. Anywhere. Ever._

Going to the supermarket had been… awkward. There was no other word for it. Groaning, she tried _not_ to bang her forehead against the steering wheel. _So, so awkward._ And failed.

Granted, she'd expected that the whole experience of going to the supermarket for a billionaire to be redundant, but for a billionaire just back from a 5 year stint in Isolation County, it was a lesson in humility and obstinate men. Obstinate men with massive psychological baggage.

Landing outside of the superstore he'd simply stood there like a statue; she'd practically had to tug him along to get him to move, though she barely touched him; this stranger who SHE DID NOT KNOW. God, forcing her unwilling so-called boss to shop with her was mortifying. It wasn't that he was unresponsive or catatonic, like a person with severe emotional trauma, it was as if he were taking everything in at a pace. As if he were _remembering_ , or at least trying to.

Loading supplies into her basket and trying to be quick about it, it had taken her a while to realise that he wasn't behind her. She'd found him three isles down, examining cable wires and electronics equipment, which was a bit of a surprise to be honest. Before she could start rambling about the efficiencies of particular circuitry one of the stock room staff in the store dumped a pallet roller, laden with empty pallets after stock clearing, about three metres behind him.

It was a shock to have him be there beside her one second, listening to whatever was coming out of her mouth (she'd never remember), and the next having him away from her at the safest distance possible, which would be the length of the isle; both head and eyes trained on the pallets and the stock boy like a hawk. Assessing his environment. 'Jumpy' didn't come close to describing it.

The fact that he'd palmed a Stanley Knife did not escape her notice.

Nor did her discerning and slightly shaken expression pass from his.

The overhead lights of the store had thrown his face into pallid reflection and she was sure she didn't look any better. Blue eyes stared her down, analysing her reaction until he finally cleared his throat and moved to place the knife back on its shelf. With a huge amount of reluctance.

His hand shook.

His left index finger and thumb had been rubbing together and he kept a distance of several feet from Felicity after that as she continued to buy her groceries. Having his eyes on her the whole time – _literally; the whole time, as if staring at me rooted him to a single place_ \- had made her more than a little uncomfortable.

But she'd still, for some odd reason, bought the knife he'd placed down.

And it had relaxed him. Sure, he'd been stunned, but something has settled in his shoulders again.

Though it made her question just what the hell was wrong with _her_.

"Are you okay?"

Of course, she hadn't forgotten that he was still right there, sitting next to her in her crappy car.

Eyes remaining closed, because what was the point in being normal when he'd just witnessed her forehead flop against the knuckles of her hand and had also probably likely heard her pitiful groan. She flickered her fingers out from where they'd been tapping restlessly on the wheel. "I'm fine. Totally fine!" The chipper tone was nulled promptly by the obvious slump in her form.

She could _hear_ his bafflement. "Okay then."

 _Ugh_. Taking a deep breath she moved her head, looking up at him and saw that his expression matched his tone. _Great._

"So er," her hand gestured out the window in front of them, "this is my home sweet home."

His eyes followed to where her finger pointed.

It was at the end of a corner, a forked road just outside of the Glades and literally at the tip of Tudor's Way; the highway, lane and pathway leading to the busy hub that was Starling City central. Her home sat alone at the very end of the street in a rundown building that was once an apartment block. In fact no other house stood on this particular street. True, around one bend sat _several_ houses, around another was a Laundromat and around the third was a business she'd never cared for the name of. She was close to Queen's Park too, but literally her street was one filled with closed up shops and offices.

She'd chosen it for that very reason.

Out of her peripheral Felicity saw him take a look but didn't dare try to make out his reaction. It was humbling to admit that whilst she had never invited anyone inside before she had gotten close and the looks on their faces had been enough to prove to Felicity that the majority of the populace took beauty at face value.

If Oliver Queen didn't like the fact that her home was an abysmal looking, abandoned building that she'd gotten at a steal that was standing on a dimly lit street then he'd have to lump it. He was the one that couldn't face his family after all.

But as she shut her car door closed, coming around the side, he was already there hands out and reaching for her bags, refusing her _'no, it's alright'_ answer and lifting the proverbial middle finger to extremist feminists everywhere. The expression on his face didn't look any different from the usual apathetic one she'd been getting slowly used to. No judgement. Nothing.

 _Oh. Well then._

There was a tingling in her fingertips that told a tale about the cons of excess adrenaline. It was controllable. For now.

He followed her as she walked towards a door with black paint crusting over it. There were many ways to get into this building; this was just the most obvious one. Putting her key in the lock Felicity turned to look at Oliver over her shoulder.

"Ready?" She felt like rolling her eyes at herself. _Why wouldn't he be?_

At his patient nod she pushed open the door and ushered him inside, out of the rain, locking it again. The vestibule was the exact opposite of its outside appearance; a small white space with no pictures or ornaments of any kind. It was sterile. Not felicity Smoak. But she didn't live in this space, though it was part of her living space. Her home was one floor up… the only tenant in the building.

Not thinking about the fact that, as a result of her longer than average work day the son/stepson (Moira/Walter) of her boss was following her she walked up the set of stairs just waiting in front of her, ignoring the short hallway to the side. There was an alarm box just in front of the door (since she _practically_ owned the building; there was a secondary alarm system inside too that she rarely used) to her place and she keyed in the code, knowing that he'd seen it; _I'll just change it tomorrow. Maybe install upgrades. No I'm not paranoid; just careful. In the most extreme sense._

Then she opened the door.

Felicity loved her apartment. She loved it because she'd designed it; each and every part.

Okay, she didn't exactly draw thorough sketches and pull up construction blueprints of the building or anything (she could have done but that's beside the point) but it held a piece of her in its pages, so to speak.

When she'd first moved to Starling City she'd stayed in a B&B for two weeks before happening across this glorious find. Glorious in that it held potential. And nobody wanted to live there, nobody _had_ lived there for six years before Felicity stepped foot inside. There had been a shootout in this building that should have made WEBG Starling City 7 News history but hadn't since the civilians involved, numbering in the double digits, had been vagabonds, drug users and nomads; the general homeless populace.

Being dirt cheap had only been her _second_ incentive.

Her first was that the floor directly above her apartment had half collapsed in long before the incident. Someone had very kindly managed to, rather than construct another floor, fill in the cracks and weak points of the remaining level. A floor that came with her own for _free_. Since it wasn't technically a floor. Very promptly she'd handed over the money to a very tired and befuddled looking realtor, snatching the keys as she performed her usual happy dance like the caffeine infested bunny rabbit she'd probably appeared to be.

She'd sanded and dusted, chopped and painted her way through the two floors until it became hers but she didn't stop there either. Knocking down several walls and building others had managed to make her place appear even bigger than it was… and it was pretty massive already. It had taken her three days to build a set of inexpensive winding stairs at the base of the impressive 'hole' above her head. If she stood in the upper half of the lower floor she could see up into the corridor/open space/whatever-you-want-it-to-be she'd furnished, albeit spartanly. And there were no doors up there either, which she preferred.

So walking in the first thing a person would see was the vast expanse of the room.

Picture if you will, the warmth of a terracotta carpet stretching 20 metres by forty, because that was the length of her living room. Her kitchen sat there too, to the right of the room without a wall to separate it from the main area. It was her tribute to ' _Friends'_ , only a much swankier, much larger version. In fact the whole place was such a wide space that her two sofa settee's, grey in colour, looked tiny. Further beyond them was an open area where she could and did do anything she wanted and to the left and right of this space were two large, sliding doors. There was a deep pine table alongside one wall and an assortment of strange knick knacks that she'd collected over the years displayed behind glass in cabinets or exposed on small stools, a coffee table and side cupboards. There were a few pictures too and above her HD TV a selection of Robin Hood movie posters held timeless for all the world to see… or maybe just the one man she'd allowed inside.

In the winter her inviting looking fire would automatically spring to life the moment she opened the door. Instead she flickered on a couple of lights, as there were several, and watched as the darkness was overcome by the softness of dim lanterns and teardrops.

"Honey, I'm home!" Felicity shouted out habitually as she stepped over the threshold.

She felt him stiffen behind her. "You live with someone?"

A flush broke over her skin and she really couldn't help the embarrassed laugh that escaped her. "No! No, I live alone. _Completely_ alone. It's uh… it's a habit." She licked her lips, taking off her coat. "But I do own a cat. Or rather, she owns me. Comes and goes whenever she pleases."

He didn't say anything and she didn't blame him; he was probably regretting his decision to come with her already. There was a large floor mat adjacent to the front door where she slipped off her sodden shoes and took in a deep inhale to steady her growing nerves. Because, yes, there was a man now in her home with possible aggressive tendencies pertaining to his _more_ than probable PTSD due to an extended stay on a foreign island.

 _Let's just say it's crossed my mind. A bit. Okay, a lot._

PTSD; it had to be.

The solemnity, the unusual behaviour, the calculating and aloof expression, the robotic head turns, these were easily fathomed and reasoned if PTSD were placed in the equation.

Her brain was a land filled with information, some useful and some the opposite. Felicity knew that in order to get diagnosed with PTSD an individual must have directly or indirectly experienced some sort of traumatic event. _Being shipwrecked on an island could be diagnosed as traumatic enough but…_

Something didn't feel right about that.

Her brain couldn't forget the image of him palming that knife, the same knife she knew he'd pilfered once again from her shopping when he thought she wasn't looking.

Why would he feel like he needed a knife? Or would any weapon do? As if he were in danger, as if he were used to danger, used to having to protect himself in lethal ways. But he wasn't a soldier returning from a war zone in Afghanistan nor had he been a victim of a horrifically long stay with terrorist group looking for a profit from a rich American family. No, he was just a man who'd been shipwrecked on an unpopulated island and left alone for five years… right?

Hyper-vigilance was one of the three main categorised symptoms of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, one characterised by frequent 'starts', where a person might not be able to relax because he or she was on constant alert.

Avoidance was another. _He certainly doesn't want to go home yet._

It made Felicity wonder. Had anyone actually asked him what had happened whilst he was away? Had anybody asked him what he really wanted? Had anyone wondered at whether or not he'd need therapy? Or if not therapy, someone simply to talk to?

Did anybody actually ask him… if he was alright? Just that?

 _Please tell me somebody asked him if he was alright._

There was a sinking feeling in her stomach.

 _Alright as in 'no, I'm not alright, I'm barely coping but what do you expect from me? I was shipwrecked and isolated for years! This is my new normal.'_

 _Not_ _alright as in 'yes, I'm fine. I'm home now. Everything's going to be okay. I'm the exact same person I was when I left.'_ Just thinking the words gave her the creeps.

But after five years in any environment considered foreign a man could and would change. And Oliver Queen would have definitely changed. Into what, she didn't have a clue.

Except now he had a knife.

 _This was such a bad idea. Thinking too much about what may or may not be like is also such a bad idea. It really isn't good for my adrenaline,_ which was currently torpedoing into the stratosphere. Any minute now she'd start sweating.

But the sinking feeling vanished when she turned to watch him out of the corner of her eye and caught the oddest look on his face. His expression had changed. And it was just as startling as it had been when he'd smiled at her.

Standing there to her left, he was taking in her apartment; his eyes had lost their cool composure, the ice blue relaxing into the deeper waters of gentle surprise. They flickered over the free space, the stained staircase in the far corner (they also took in the number of doors, like he was looking for the exit just in case), the framed collector's editions posters of Errol Flynn, Russell Crowe, and Kevin Costner all in their green Robin of the Hood regalia and for just a moment she felt as if an invisible wall that she hadn't noticed before had dropped free off him.

He'd let down his guard.

Which was difficult to do for someone suffering PTSD.

But it made whatever anxiety had started to blossom in her chest fade somewhat. Biting on her lip, Felicity reached for the grocery bags and when his eyes snapped back to her she didn't flinch or do anything other than smile as she took them from him.

"Like the place?" She asked as she manoeuvred her way to her kitchen and calling back over her shoulder as she turned from him. "It took a while to do up."

"It's… nice. Big."

 _I'll take what I can get._ Placing pears and Persimmon's in a wicker fruit bowl without making them look like a lurid green and orange mess could be a literal art form. "Thanks!"

"It wasn't what I expected." She shouldn't have heard the low mutter but – fantastic hearing. He called out. "Did you do all this yourself?"

"Most of it." She called back as she offloaded mint chip into the freezer. "The literal hole in the ceiling was there when I bought the place."

"You're not just renting?" He sounded surprised.

"Nope! It's all mine."

Straightening she adjusted her glasses, _ugh, I forgot to wipe them_ – the little water marks would take forever to clean – and walked back into the main area.

He was stood in the exact same spot she'd left him in, except he'd shucked off his coat and had it folded over his arms. His expression made her think he was a little unsure about something.

"You can hang that up you know." She pointed to the coat rack behind him.

"My shoes are wet…"

For some reason it was funny. Or absurdly adorable. Her head tilted sideways at him, an indulgent smile spilling helpless from her. "Oliver, you can take them off too. Take it all off." Panicked, her eyes widened. "Or don't! Your choice."

Obviously nothing phased this guy because without even the tiniest acknowledgement of her verbal gaff the man simply began unfastening the laces of his shoes before placing them with hers and hanging his coat on the rack beside her red one.

 _Right,_ she nodded to herself.

 _Drive him to the morbidly ghostly factory of supreme potential, check. Take him on an unplanned and probably unsolicited tour of Little Bird where thankfully nobody had spotted that it was Oliver Queen strolling next to me like an overgrown crow, like they'd even recognise him, check. Bring him back to my place for reasons totally negating any and all gutter drenched images that those opening words immediately implanted in my brain, check…_

 _Now what?_

For some reason the idea of engaging in small talk sounded incredibly patronising. And terrifying. _Liking the constant rain? Basketball fan are you? Yes, I'm partial to a little Fall Out Boy myself but it wouldn't be my first choice. What happened on Prison Break? I'd tell you if I'd watched it though I suggest you stay away from Lost for the immediate future…_

Internally she was already cringing. _I am so bad at this. '_ This' being the art of talking to and bringing men (because he certainly isn't a boy) home with her. Strange men. Who were unbelievably rich. And handsome – _smoking hot, really, can't lie_ – who had left behind a reputation for sleeping with every gorgeous girl from Starling to Massachusetts.

There was no way she could fault him when he stopped short as he turned to her again; she had been fidgeting and she was pretty sure her leg was jigging on the spot. But his eyes were trained behind her, low to the floor.

 _Oh, right…_

The brush of very wet fur stroked across the uncovered skin of her lower calf until she felt it on her shins. Sighing, Felicity looked down, _there she is._

When it came to Mau, Felicity's awareness was almost sharper than her hearing.

Caught in the feline beauty that a pair of small green and gold irises can bestow she tilted her head. "I know; I'm late."

Her cat was a beautiful bronze Egyptian 'Mau'; slightly larger than the average size cat and twice as intelligent.

One loud 'meow' sounded out from deep within its throat and Felicity rolled her eyes. "And I got your food."

Oliver looked like he had no idea how to react and it was kind of refreshing to not be the one out of their depth, if not entertaining. Especially when Mau slinked over to the man and started sniffing his feet, padding around him to get a good look. Apparently one time around wasn't enough for her either. _I know how you feel._

"Mau?" She called. And was ignored. _Figures_.

Oliver was looking at her again. She was already halfway to the closet when she was finally able to string more than two words together. "D-do you want a towel?" _Should have offered him one sooner._

"Please."

Felicity pulled out her largest, softest one. "Here." She said, passing it to him. Pointing her thumb behind her, towards the far door, next to the back window she asked, "Do you mind if I just check on something for a moment?"

He arched a brow.

She blinked at him.

He slowly shook his head - _no_.

"Thanks. So, uh…" Moving away she walked towards the last plastic carrier. "I got you a pair of sweatpants. Had to guess your size but I figured if you were coming over you'd want to dry the clothes you were wearing." She tried for a confident laugh but it sounded more like a wheeze because, _gulp._ It meant taking clothes off. An idea she was more than partial to but he was still a stranger so, no. "Didn't want you walking around naked. Not that it would be any kind of problem for you to be naked and in my house, far from it, I mean you're really- and I'm going to stop now. Just stop talking Felicity." _I could die._ Shaking her head she reached for the bag when he spoke.

"What happened to the Glades?"

Half bent over, she peeked at him over her arm. "Sorry?"

"The Glades." He reiterated, the towel still neatly folded in his hands. "Before I…" In the longest of pauses that followed he didn't move or breathe, his facial expression didn't change at all. He just looked at her until he found the word, any word. " _Left_ , it was already…" Again with the searching.

"Falling to pieces?" She offered.

"Yes." His voice was quiet, as if afraid to say the words aloud. "But now it looks worse. I barely saw any of it but it _still_ looks worse." He took a step towards her. "Was it because my father closed the factory?"

Her heart gave a twinge.

 _Tread carefully._ "No." She shook her head, trying for a sympathetic smile. "I can see why you would think that but, no." Since her skirt had been shielded by her coat it was dry enough to sit and she did, on the sofa closest to the kitchen, which wasn't all that close. "I've only lived in Starling City for the past two years. Well, two years and about nine months to be exact. But I did some research. Research is something that I do, a lot," she explained when the slightest tilt of his head asked her to. "Anyway, closure of Queen's Industrial Shipping Factory didn't exactly kill the Glades, but it _was_ considered to be the final blow in a series of really hard setbacks, knock downs and deliberate tampering that has led the Glades to its own destruction via internal combustion." She shrugged. "Very deliberate use of words."

"How bad?"

Her heavy exhale puffed her cheeks. "Let's put it this way; don't ever walk around the Glades at night alone. In fact don't walk around the Glades at night period, not if you aren't aware of which place is safe and which isn't. Don't expect to get a job there either because there aren't any. Unless you count petty crime as employment. And some of it's not so petty. The rich folks of Starling tend to ignore the general degeneration of an integral part of their city." Well into it now she'd totally blanked Oliver, who still stood, prone and silent somewhere to her left. "Pretty sure some of them play a hand in making it worse."

"What?"

She blinked, eyes losing their slightly 'deep in thought' veneer. _Er… what was that about?_ She never travelled down this train of thought in company. "Never mind." Finally reaching for the bag she stood and passed him the pants. "I won't be a minute. If you want to change you can put your pants on the kitchenette and I'll stick them in the dryer." And with that she moved away, across the room towards the nondescript far door and stepped inside, sliding it shut behind her.

Do you know the true irony of the Glades? It's very simple: a 'glade' is an open area within a woodland. The woodland being what makes up the rest, the majority, of Starling City. People in this city deemed the Glades as a dangerous place to live in on the simple ground that crime of any particular element was the most prevalent there. But it's in the 'woodland' area where the true monsters creep, the ones hidden behind glass and doors and buildings and money. In a dark forest it's difficult to sometimes see the wood for the trees. And in Starling City, it was in the cleanest, the mightiest, and the safest places that Felicity had discovered to being the most insidious.

Monsters like James Holder, the CEO of Holder Corporation, were a symptom of this darkness.

And he wasn't the sole occupant of the list _she'd_ compiled.

That list and this room were two more examples of why Felicity never invited colleagues home.

Striding forwards with a purpose Felicity approached what appeared to be a mammoth network of a complex array of servers, base units, and monitors; the most up to date software and hardware a person who knows what they are looking for can by. A HUB. It took up almost a third of the room by itself and if there weren't additional monitors attached to the walls there were pictures, maps, newspaper cuttings, data profiles, filing cabinets and an unfathomable series of what would look like, to a layman, a confusing mess of numbers, but to Felicity they were a language.

She didn't sit in the comfortable swivel chair, instead opting to simply lean over one of the three keyboards on her modestly fitted, cumbersome desk and modify the ongoing search for 'patterns'. Momentarily her eyes flickered to her right where, in the darkness, stood a whiteboard – her thought board and analysis syphon - which she'd covered over with a spare sheet.

 _Tomorrow I add James Holder. Right next door to Adam Hunt._

The night didn't last long after that.

Coming back to the main room, after ten minutes or so, she'd found that he'd changed out of his pants and into the loose fitting black sweatpants. He'd also taken off the thinly weaved, long sleeved top he had on over his shirt, which was still very much in place and, more to the point, dry.

She wouldn't deny the awkward moment of silence that stretched between the two of them.

But he immediately admitted to being kind of tired. She didn't need to ask for an explanation. _How about 'I came back from the dead yesterday and it's been nonstop ever since'? That works._

Plus, being shipwrecked on an island? There was no alarm clock. She'd have been surprised if he'd managed to keep his watch.

Eventually following her upstairs, she hid her gulp as she navigated him past the hole in the floor, which was covered by a banister, around the corner of the small hall and into her spare guest room.

He arched a brow at the doorway… because there was a solid lack of doors upstairs. Of any partition other than the walls. Her bedroom lay sort of adjacent to the guest room but it slanted slightly away from it so you couldn't really see directly into either of the rooms from whichever end. And there was a big enough space between the two that sound wasn't too much of an issue. Each had their own window.

His eyes flickered from the bed to the window and then to the floor in a swift series of blue flashes and she had a sneaking suspicion that the man wouldn't be sleeping in the comfortable mattress any time soon. He didn't speak as he moved forwards and, leaving him to his own devices, she made to walk to the bathroom when he finally did.

"Felicity?"

It was the first time he'd said her name and it hit her like a wall. His expression hadn't changed but it was still the first time he'd called her by her forename.

"Thank you."

Serenely, softly, she smiled. "You're welcome Oliver."

But on entering the bathroom, on locking it with the metal bolt she'd attached after moving in, on taking in that first deep, stuttering breath at the knowledge that she'd invited a stranger into her home so suddenly, on realising that with him being there she couldn't possibly do what she _normally_ did during the night… her entire being **revolted**.

Body shaking, skin staring to glisten with sweat, _no,_ vision tunnelling as the cells of her body worked overtime, _not now,_ as the electrons in her brain ran faster than she was likely to be able to stand she stumbled over to the cabinet above her sink, searching for a specific bottle of pills and fumbling with the release cap when she found them. It had been a long time since she'd had to take her meds. Xanax, Diazepam, Ativan, Sarafem – name a benzodiazepine and she'd tried it.

 _Control yourself._

All she had to do was wait for it to take effect. Back hitting the door, she slid down its surface, body hunched and knees brought up to her chest she closed her eyes, forcing her mind blank and for her lungs to expand as she breathed in her meditation song. No kinetic energy reaching her hands.

 _No sudden movements…_

* * *

 **04:01am…**

' _Sleep of the Just' my ass…_

The drowsy thought ghosted her mind as she turned over, seeking comfort in her pillows. _Not much comfort,_ there was much pummelling and then some twisting of bed sheets.

Her mind quickly drifted off again into a 'half-wake, half-sleeping' thing…

After the panic attack, slumber; as in wholesome respite, had been a long time coming. She'd tossed and turned until finally giving in to the overpowering fact that her body wanted to do more than lie down. So she'd chosen some yoga. _That's normal, right? Yoga at 12:37pm?_

Lying down on the mat at the foot of her bed Felicity had stretched, tucked, pulled and manoeuvred her body into almost every shape imaginable.

 _He'd_ been quiet, almost impossibly so… there was no reason it should have woken him up.

Yet she couldn't help but feel like she was being watched. The flicker of movement in her peripheral had told her so, calling for distraction but she'd ignored it. _Put it down to partial insomnia, because honestly? Who slept well after all that he'd been through?_

She'd heard him too, frequently in spits and spats during her own very fitful sleep; a gasp here, a mumble there, the odd groan which definitely had her panicking but she hadn't gone to him. One of the first rules of dealing with a person with (aggressive or no) PTSD is to never wake them unless you understood more about the situation; let it happen naturally.

Eventually he'd shouted out.

 _Sara_

 _Dad_

 _No_

 _SARA!_

 _Not you_

 _Laurel_

Other words became an indistinguishable mess of mumbling, whimpers, fast breathing and odd accents. And then he'd quieted.

Laurel and Sara Lance.

During her research on Starling and her subsequent find of all things 'Ollie' online, she'd been hard-pressed to come across an article about him that _didn't_ involve Tommy Merlyn or either of the aforementioned women.

 _It must be hard to come home to. He hasn't felt it yet but he will._ The judgement. The hate. The overwhelming adoration. The throng of people who claim to know who and what he is, who treat his story as a sensational happening, as if he'd been on a five year pleasure cruise rather than a five year stretch on an island he probably now views as a prison.

 _Prison._

The news had referred to the island as a place called 'Lian Yu'. Accurate translation; Purgatory.

 _God I hope it wasn't a literal description._ Flashes of online articles popped up over her eyelids, as if they were computer monitors. _I can't even rest when I float._ She was vaguely aware of an open window, somewhere, could feel the breeze on her skin; the temperature and moisture in the air conveying that the rain fall hadn't quite ceased just yet. _Just keep your eyes closed Felicity. Keep breathing deep, try to get the last hour in before-_

There was a shift.

Just a… _something_. Something was different. Her heart rate was already accelerating, her mind waking dizzyingly fast, _something isn't right._

Eyelids fluttered away from over her eyes, mere slits of vision that took in her room… Nothing. There was nothing-

Oliver was standing in her doorway.

 _Oh._

It was dark, _too dark_ , but her eyes were natural adapters to natural or unnatural light and the light from the moon was more than enough to allow her to see him standing straight and formidable in size, just half a step inside her bedroom, to see his face. The pounding in her chest rocketed. His eyes were on edge, a blank slate, staring straight at her.

He was holding a knife. The same knife she'd bought as a compassionate compromise.

 _Oh frack me…_


	4. Chapter 4

**On Stranger Tides**

 **The night before, 10:36pm, Starling City General Hospital, October 2015**

It started with him running.

Running away from something, running towards someone; it didn't matter. He'd started running five years ago. He hadn't stopped and when he stood still he was running even faster.

But he couldn't help looking back over his shoulder. A constant.

 _I am the return._

 _ **Can you tell us your name?**_

 _ **Mr Queen!**_

 _ **Sir, are you hurt anywhere?**_

 _ **Are you Oliver Queen?**_

Oliver. Queen.

It was like falling back into step… except it also really wasn't.

They'd asked him over and over again, the doctors, for something so simple. For just his name. Each reply immediate, his name ghosted past his lips; a mere memory of what it used to represent.

The tests were the worst of it. They were unnecessary. He was fine. In China, before he'd boarded the plane he'd shaved and bathed. Not because he'd wanted or needed to, but because the expressions on the faces of the strangers who'd stolen a look at 'The American Wild Man', told him that if he wanted to blend in he'd have to. You tend to forget the little things when your priority is survival.

 _The men who found me gave me their own name._ _Dǎo de jīngshén. Mandarin… The Spirit of the Island._

Weather beaten, rugged and fierce. Haunted. A ghost who'd walked out of the forest's shadow; that's what he'd looked like to them. The spirit of purgatory.

Maybe he was.

Sterile and bright the hospital room felt exposed. Night didn't have synthetic light. Night held chilblains and the heartbeat of the ocean. The night held the knife, the claw and the gunshot.

'Here' they told him to relax, told him that he could. That it would be alright.

 _Sure._

They didn't know.

He'd stared at them. How could he relax in a place that he no longer understood to be safe or normal? Normal wasn't benign. Not anymore. Normal was more dangerous than anything else. But for them, the staff, he supposed that 'public hospital' meant safety. As if the two words placed together created a shield to reality. It wasn't quite the same in Oliver's experience.

 _There is no safety._

Dr Lamb had stared into his eyes and, unable to see past the surface, had found an enigma. A question mark that eventually led him to stop querying Oliver's silence, to stop asking him if he needed anything, to stop trying to get him to react in some way, whether positive or otherwise so that he wouldn't have to tell Moira Queen that her son was catatonic.

Or worse.

That her son, was no longer her son.

Hippocratic Oath be damned, right? _Money must be involved. I shouldn't be surprised._

Completely unreceptive but - to the doctor's obvious consternation - oddly calm, Oliver had stood through the examinations without making a sound; hadn't flinched as hands trespassed over him and honestly hadn't been concerned at how the scars on his body would appear. Not to them. Not to strangers whose care he'd never be under again. They could be explained away. They would pass it off as one of the consequences of being shipwrecked and pity would ensure their silence. People could be made to believe anything. Though manipulation wasn't his direct goal it was a requisite tool so the right look, a certain gesture and they'd sway to meet his whims.

For as long as he would live.

 _Probably not long then._

Staring out the window at the city's skyline he waited for Dr Lamb to tell his mother to prepare herself. That her son was scarred. That he might not be the person who embarked on a voyage of lust five years before.

And he wasn't; but that was the hard part. Living each day as something else, someone he couldn't possibly be anymore. Case in point; who he used to be was a boy who would run towards the comfort that the title 'mother' had naturally represented once upon a time.

He was empty of it now.

Ironic that 'Ollie Queen' was a facet of himself he now despised and yet he knew that the 'Oliver' who'd survived would be repugnant to those who'd known 'Ollie'. Ironic. Neither of his 'selves' deserved saving. He was far past that. But sometimes what needed to be done, asked for the unwelcome, darker parts of man.

For his other face was a mask of truth, one hooded in darkness. They, his mother and sister, would never see it for they lived in the light and always would. As it should be.

It had been easy to objectively evaluate those he'd come across in the hours since his arrival. Over the years he'd developed a keen intuition and strong discipline of his emotions, allowing him to inspect even the shrewdest and calculating of men and women. And now he discovered one truth.

He could _never_ be himself here. Not ever.

His vicissitudes weren't tolerable, couldn't be. They'd been built over the years, evolved with the many scars he'd gradually received, each one teaching a different lesson. Teaching a different ability. He'd lived the type of life they couldn't fathom. And he didn't _want_ them to _know_.

Pretend normalcy would be difficult to acclimate to but he was ready.

Without his permission the doctors couldn't reveal his scars, or any other discoveries to his mother. So it was fine. He simply waited. And stared out through the glass.

Starling.

In many ways it was still the same; that purity mixed with the poison. The good and the bad. But he could feel how it had altered. It wasn't in sight, it was in the small things. The hidden menaces. The sickness of his home. It was an inescapable feeling in the air, as if he'd developed a sixth sense for it.

It was a home where what was once familiar no longer recognised him. But the strangeness, the city itself, did.

And then his mother stepped into the room. Quietly, tentatively, taking one step. Then another before stopping.

"Oliver?" His name as a question.

As if she wasn't sure just yet that it was him.

And it wasn't. Not really.

Moira Queen would never know, ever, in those brief moments, how close she'd been to the truth of her son, to the _real_ of who he was now.

His mother's voice saying his name forced him to take a deep breath. His shoulders heaved from the weight of it. Then he turned to face her, eyes opposite the ground till the last possible second.

And there she was.

 _Mom._

Seeing her face, his immediate emotional response was to shrink away. To deny her the chance to see the failure written on his skin and screaming in his eyes. Such a paradox: he didn't want to reveal to her any of the differences, yet he also didn't want her to want to _see_ 'Ollie' either. Physically, his already straight back tensed just as his chest constricted; he'd _**missed**_ her. He loved her.

But now the lies would begin, for they had already begun on the island. His guard, which had never dropped, rose ever higher.

It could never fall.

It felt like a small miracle, seeing his mother again - and it was one he found zero comfort in. In the past, whenever he'd royally screwed up she'd been there to protect and shelter him, to weather his punishments for him. Unconditional love given freely. It was alien to him now; something he couldn't possibly receive anymore. It didn't feel… _right_.

He didn't mind that it didn't.

There was a displacement between who he was then and who he is now. It stopped him from feeling the full force of relief he should have felt. He no longer knew what it was to be reassured by a parental figure.

And he was fine with that. He was beyond needing it. Had come to terms with it. But _she_ didn't know that.

So she'd hugged him, like mom's do – _my beautiful boy_ – blind with love, when he didn't _want_ her to touch him. It was a touch that expected things from him, things he couldn't give any longer. But she'd needed it, had gained some strength from it, so he held her – held her in a way he'd never had to before; with him being the pillar of strength instead of her - until she was done.

He'd smelt a scent on her skin that wasn't her own. Aftershave.

A **man's** scent on her neck and in her hair. He didn't know who it was; he just knew that it _wasn't_ Robert Queen's. Because he was dead.

Luckily Oliver had perfect control.

* * *

 **14:12, Queen Mansion**

The pictures on the table were the first thing he'd seen.

A violent reminder of… everything. Nothing. All of it.

He'd expected to come home, to return to someplace he'd known and feel something close to warmth. To feel different. For just a moment. He'd looked for it in the stone and brick and mortar, where it hadn't been in his mother's face or the face of the family butler 'Ivan', who he'd never been fond of, feeling it all the more as he'd taken his army munitions chest away from the man's grasping fingers.

Pausing on the threshold to the mansion, that first step through the front doors had been like stepping onto the surface of Mars. Completely unfamiliar. Surreal.

Disillusioning.

It really had disappeared; the idea of 'home'. It no longer existed.

A part of him had been holding onto that, had wanted to feel it again; a sense of belonging to one place – a sense of 'returning'. He supposed it no longer mattered. And it was cemented, that non-feeling, by Walter Steele, now the CEO of Queen Consolidated. His father's old position. His mother's… _lover_. The scent of him, the same trace he'd taken in at the hospital, filled the air but it was strongest on his mother's neck.

It had pulled at the spine. His father had been replaced.

The genuine affection on Raisa's face almost – _almost_ \- made the experience worth it; her hands were the same hands that used to pat his cheek as a child.

And _Thea_ …

The once little girl with pigtails in her hair, who'd followed him everywhere and adored the ground he'd walked on had grown into this beautiful young woman with problems of her own. If he hadn't seen her that day two and a half years before, the sight of her rushing down those steps - all pretty, young and wild - would have crushed him. Instead he'd merely gained a semblance of solace from the simplicity of their still very present connection. On the fact that he just loved her. Had really missed her. The way he saw her, how she saw him…

It was the one thing that hadn't changed. His sister was someone he'd do anything for. No compromises.

" _I missed you so much."_

" _You were with me the whole time."_

Her hugs were an embrace he could stand, could reciprocate upon, even though it already asked questions he wouldn't give her. Even though it threatened disappointment.

He thought briefly on how the world still viewed him, how the people around him would continue to see him. He'd seen the stares in the hospital, had heard the news event on the television in his room…

The way Tommy immediately expected – he could tell from the look in his eyes – to see and hear the same 'Ollie Queen' he once knew as he'd breezed through the front door to the mansion.

Billionaire playboy.

 _What a joke._

He didn't know what it meant to really be that anymore.

It _should_ have hurt him, would have made him question the minds of the people around him, to wonder how they could possibly think that, after five years in foreign waters, he wouldn't have changed at all.

Mostly, now, he just wondered how he could continue the façade.

It had nothing to do with moral character; individuals tended to see what they expected, what they wanted, and what was easiest to accept. He couldn't fault members of his family for doing the same. Not after leaving them alone for five years.

Even if it meant that for him it _must_ be business as usual.

 _He'd_ made the decision; he'd been ready to return, so he had. Oliver Queen had a job to do.

But it was uncomfortable.

Being around _them_ was almost… excruciating. No amount of anticipation could have prepared him. To see the changes he'd played no part in, the growth he hadn't witnessed, how some things hadn't changed a bit, where he without a doubt had. Immensely. There was no prediction that could have equipped him for just how hard it would be to see everyone again - and he hadn't even stepped out of the zone of his immediate family yet.

* * *

 **18:56, Queen Mansion**

His room…

 _My room._

It was… not his room. Not anymore. It belonged to a selfish, delinquent juvenile – a rich man's excuse for a failure in the family – who squandered his days with the girls he brought up there. Though after Laurel…

 _Laurel._

Who was she now?

A lawyer, of course. Not a sister. Not now. A daughter still? Did she talk to her father as much as he wished he could talk to his own? Did she hate him? For leaving her, for getting on a boat with her sister? For dying, for _Sara_ … Would she look at him the way she used to, as if he hung the moon?

 _I'm sure I never did._

But he missed the comfort of it. Of being seen in such a light, to know that at the end of the day there was at least one person who thought you were everything. Even if he hadn't deserved the title, even if it was a lie, even if she hadn't seen the sides to him he'd hid so well.

 _She hadn't. Thankfully. At least not until… after. Until now._

He wasn't a fool. He wasn't deluded; he knew that if she saw him again… he had no idea what to expect from her. Hatred? Anger? Had she missed him? Would she _see_ him, _into_ him?

Was she still beautiful?

He already knew she was; the glimpse he'd seen of her on his brief return years before, undercover, working for Argus, he'd seen her. Like Tommy, she hadn't changed. Not on the outside-

 _I won't ever get what I want. Stop wondering._

Yet the need to see her again was an almost palpable sensation.

Everything was odd to him now, what was once familiar was now different; the feeling of being out of place present in every memory he held dear, in every room in the mansion. His face in the mirror was a stranger. The face of a man who'd died out there.

A face tied to a past he thought he'd stepped away from.

" _May I be excused?"_

His abrupt departure from the table had been his very controlled version of a near sprint. He'd made his mother uncomfortable. He'd seen it loud and clear. From his collective experience he knew that his direct stare, the way he sat, his overall body language - both conscious and subconscious – had altered tremendously. Cause and effect.

 _Who did I bring home,_ had flashed precipitously through her eyes and had vanished almost as swiftly. Scaring his mother by being himself.

A cruel anecdote.

He'd excused himself. An abrupt, though efficient way to end the conversion. So he could find a place where he could feel it. The royal truth: that his mum had moved on. She'd said goodbye to his father, when he hadn't and probably never would. He didn't realise until taking that first deep breath how much that cost him. It was all painful.

Coming to a stop along the hallway adjacent to the dining room he looked at the small picture of Robert Queen, placed strategically against the panelling; easily missed by guests but not by his own sharp gaze.

 _Everything's changed. Yet nothing really has._

Tommy was still Tommy. Brave but clueless. He hadn't changed; he still partied, still slept with girls, with women, still tossed them aside – their old regime still very present – and still wore that charismatic smile that made all the girls fall to their knees and lose their senses. Still lived life like he was 19; a wicked Peter Pan, a philanderer with money to burn.

The most surprising thing? Tommy _still_ needed his best friend to navigate life's waters with him. Even after all this time; he'd picked up right where they'd left off and it had thrown Oliver, astounded at how Tommy had managed to downplay the five years of hell with a solitary reference. At how he'd forgotten to change too.

" _Yachts suck."_

As if being threatened in China by a madman didn't change you.

And Oliver was thankful for it; he needed it. It was impossible and undeniable - Tommy Merlyn being the same guy he'd always been was something Oliver didn't realise he needed. He missed it. That a man like Tommy could remain so untouched by the harsh reality of life. And he planned to keep it that way.

 _Tommy would be fine in there_. He was probably eating the plate of fine food that Oliver hadn't touched. Living the life he'd lived, from serving a prison sentence on an island to being held hostage by a clandestine sector of the government in China, to being back on the island as a mercenary, to drinking with the Bratva in Russia… eating habits alter. The size of his palate had fluctuated, decreased, too used to eating on the run, too many times eating only for the necessity of slating hunger, small portions that rarely consisted of a cooked meal.

And everything on his plate reeked of flavour. Too rich. Just looking down at it, he knew he'd never get through the first bite. Not yet. There had been zero time for him to acclimatise. So he'd asked for a pear and had ended up hiding it like a shameful secret.

He'd wanted to be here, to come back. But, at the same time, he also really… hadn't, didn't.

Like an itch under his skin that he couldn't scratch he just wanted to be out there. Right now. To be underway. Searching for people on the list, finding out where they live and hide. Seeking their secrets and exploiting their weaknesses. Giving justice to those the law refused to help. Cut past the red tape. Serving a purpose.

But he knew it wasn't time. There were things he had to do first, to prepare. It would take time and it would take a lot of work. And all he could do right now was… head up to his old room. A place haunted by the semantics of his mother's memories of him; she hadn't changed a thing about it.

Her touch was everywhere. It didn't help when Thea let it slip that his mother used to spend hours at a time in there, crying over his affects, having his clothes cleaned, re-cleaned, everything that was once his laminated – frozen in time - and kept pristine.

The room represented 'Ollie Queen'.

Ollie Queen didn't deserve the dedication. Ollie Queen died on the island. Ollie Queen hadn't had the strength to survive. Oliver had killed Ollie and left no trace of his existence save for the mask he would obviously have to start wearing in the morning.

 _I killed myself._

Reaching for the picture, his fingers traced its surface-

-A quiet rustling of fabric, key chains and papers in a coat pocket, alerting him to the presence of a stranger in Mansion, had him pausing.

It wasn't Raisa; her quiet shuffle easily recognisable amongst the insufferably neat tap, tap, tap, of Ivan's tailor fit, French loafers. And everyone else living in the mansion where now seated in the dining hall. So who…

Quiet, so quiet… he moved. Crept. Down the silent hallway leading to the front doors…

 _Who is that?_

Her back was to him - because if anyone was so obviously female it was this person – but whoever it was, she was soaked to the bone. Blond hair pulled high was stuck to the back of a coat so red it practically shone in the multitudes of brown's in the Queen foyer. Not exactly short in height – he'd put her at a decent 5 foot 5 or 6 inches – her heels added an inch or so; modest things: the epitome of demure. She wasn't wearing tights and, from what he could see from where he stood, the rain… hadn't done a single thing to make her legs less attractive.

He couldn't tell from this angle just how old she was but he'd peg her in her early 20's.

Whoever it was, she was dripping on a carpet so expensive his mother had once paid people to have it weekly cleaned. And she was muttering. Practically wrestling with her coat.

But then she froze utterly. Like an animal smelling the scent of a predator on the breeze. The oddest sense of Deja vu trespassed over him. And then she turned so swiftly it actually caught him by surprise; calm, watchful surprise. Her eyes, oddly lively, were astute in finding him and once they did they narrowed in inspection of him.

Her observing gaze pushed him to come out of hiding.

 _She shouldn't have been able to hear me._

Each and every step he made was one born from the self-assured confidence that no human could outrun his wrath. Or his aim. Gradually her mouth, covered in dusty pink lipstick, slowly opened. And stayed there. A red pen dangled dangerously out of it.

He looked at her.

"Who are you?"

She wasn't someone from the past, wasn't a friend of the family; he would have remembered her. Very blonde, bottle blond, hair practically glowed beneath the various low hanging lights, plump lips in colourful shades, eyes deeply, vividly, blue… yeah; he would have remembered her.

Almost a blink, the lids of her eyes fluttered.

When lightning flashed - a streak of blue-white light arching through the windows - every cell in his body became attuned to it. Storms, freak weather; they didn't frighten him anymore, didn't hurt and blind him, didn't make him want to run for cover. Instead it stirred an imperturbable sort of fire in his blood. He was the storm. And with every crackle of electricity his gaze grew ever more focused; he never once blinked, just rode it out.

Still, it was his least favourite weather.

But it lit this woman up like a spotlight.

Her long breath was rattled with nerves before words were practically exploding out of her. "Felicity Queen. Smoak! Felicity Smoak, my name is Felicity _Smoak_."

As if saving the image of that - whatever it was - in his head, Oliver blinked. Once. He didn't know what else to do. Social speak wasn't something he'd ever been adept at unless you considered deliberate flirting or intolerable cruelty social discourse.

Her voice was unusual. An odd mixture of light frequency and low density. An amalgamation of young, rich and gentle. _Soft_. Light.

Asking her if she was a family friend was a simple prelude to uncovering her purpose at the mansion. But when she froze again before almost immediately pulling off her glasses – glasses that her hair had been stuck to – he knew she'd recognised him somehow. Maybe the news had let slip his picture or maybe if she were associated somehow with a member of his family she'd have seen the many photographs of him about the house. And the look flourishing in her eyes told him that it had taken her so long to identify a name to a face because he'd changed.

Finally, the accurate reaction.

Feeling every inch of the _change_ in question he moved closer, still watching her. Physically loosening wasn't optional; how does one cease to be who they are? Even if who they are is, at best, a questionable existence and at worst, a deplorable one? So yes, every shift and pull of muscle was a deliberate act; the slow movements trying to build an air of safety for this stranger, yet all he really felt he was doing was determining whether she was innocent or prey-

"- _You're_ Oliver Queen."

 _Loud_. He cocked a brow.

"I know I am."

"I-I know who you are!" She twittered out, a nervous smile twitching on her lips as water dripped down her throat. "You're Mr Queen."

 _No._ It hit him in the gut: Mr Queen. _Dad_. It had been the first time someone saying 'Mr Queen' had made him think of his father.

He didn't let up the stare.

And he didn't know why.

Ordering his thoughts he slid a hand in his pocket and walked towards the small table, taking in the photos and allowing her to pull herself back together all the while knowing that her eyes were still on him. Placing down the pear he stopped still at a picture there. The Queen's Gambit at the height of its glory.

What he wouldn't give to destroy it.

"'Mr Queen' was my father." He said, finally turning back towards this 'Felicity Smoak'. _Felicity_. Unusual. He wanted to speak it, to see how it would sound. "I'd prefer not to be called that."

She nodded quickly. "Of course, since he's dead." If he'd been drinking he might have spat out whichever liquid that would have been in his mouth. "I mean he drowned!"

He blinked at her again.

 _Okay_. The surprise of it waved through him. He could have stopped her from continuing… but he didn't. "But _you_ didn't." This was the kind of response that he hadn't expected to hear, because no one would have dared say it. And it looked like she wouldn't normally either if the panic glittering in her eyes was any indication; except she obviously had little control over what came out of her mouth. "Which was why you could be here right now…" The water droplets and very obvious pink flush blossoming over her collarbone was like an exclamation mark. A lovely one. "Listening to me babble." Catching her large gulp she turned slightly towards the other end of the hallway, which he realised Ivan was walking down. _Terrific._ But then she finished, eventually closing her eyes in what he guessed what sheer embarrassment. "Which will end like my dignity in three, two, one…"

Like a weight he hadn't even known existed had been fastened to his chest, it lifted and he found himself involuntarily… smiling. At this puzzling creature who said _everything_ that passed through her mind. It was probably the one and only time he'd consider social ineptitude to be a saving grace, something to be celebrated

He didn't know this person. She was a stranger. And yet she was… _familiar_.

And then as her gaze flickered back towards him, he remembered - a flash of clarity - the babbling, the talking to herself, the hair, her sense of dress. A memory, one trailing loose like smoke, emerging free of the coil it had been tied behind.

 _Trailing her fingers alongside his mother's desk she paused at the framed photograph there. 'You're cute.'_

Oh.

" _It's too bad you're, you know, dead. Which is obviously a lot worse for you than it was for me."_

It was unbelievable.

" _I need to learn to stop talking to myself."_

That she'd be here. A person who he'd never met but had seen from afar, talking to herself. To his picture. And calling him cute. And the breath of life in her that he'd felt momentarily just watching…

And the way she'd seemed to have sensed him there, so similar to how she'd just sensed him now.

" _I need to learn to stop talking to myself-" Heels stuttering to a halt, she turned towards the place he'd hidden himself. Breathing in, breathing out he'd waited and it wasn't until the slow tap of her heels started again out of the room, this time wordless, that he allowed himself to move…_

How was it possible that they'd meet, at the Queen Mansion of all places? With he does, what he has done, with what he can do, it was obscene. He didn't believe it fate but if he did, he'd say it had a sense of irony.

Leaving with her after that… there hadn't been a choice to make.

He'd made sure to first thank Ivan for making a guest feel so unbelievably unwelcome, before making his way outside. In the rain, which was pure bliss to feel. He didn't suffer from claustrophobia but the steady climb of the sensation of being closed inside a box; a pre-existing set of expectations made for him that no longer fit, the words that he could already hear whispering out from his mother made the wind and water of the outdoors an island he'd gladly fade back to. If only for a moment.

The need to escape was almost overwhelming.

Then he'd asked Felicity Smoak for a favour that was borderline indecent. Depending on how you looked at it. It didn't bother him or rather it shouldn't; him making another person uncomfortable for his own agenda. But it did. And he didn't want her to feel obligated about it either. The trust it would involve was something he absolutely shouldn't be asking of a stranger.

But there was just something about her. Something that told him he could.

She'd been leaving, heading for the double front doors when the idea came to him; one that was either really smart or incredibly dumb. Smart because this way he could get an early start on his plans and dumb because she was a total stranger – _and_ because his family would react to it well.

He'd expected a repeat of her babbling.

He _hadn't_ her to so easily accept without a hint of the reason being obligation – thanks to Ivan he knew she worked for his family's company after all - or pity. And he definitely hadn't expected the shoeless run towards her car – sitting at a ridiculous distance away. Or the altruistic offer to spend the night at her apartment. Or the fact that he'd found it preferable to going back to the Mansion.

Everything from this person had been one surprise after another.

Being in the company of someone who didn't know him, someone who wouldn't expect things from him, someone who wouldn't call him Ollie with all the memories attached; it was easier to handle. A stranger was easier to handle right now than his family than his friends.

But what happened after was a little beyond his control.

Eventually he would ask himself, _why didn't I just ask her to take me home?_

* * *

 **04:13am, Felicity's bedroom**

Felicity understood all too well how silence could be eerie.

If the creepiness of this could be placed into music there'd be a single beat of sound every 3 seconds. Just that: no upscale in pitch, no orchestral backers, just a solitary beat of black.

She _really_ remembered  this feeling. It really remembered her, _begged_ her to go _**back**_ -

 _Not the time._

Not for her personal brand of madness.

 _Some depths of madness are considered genius after all._

In the dark of her room – the rigidity of his form, the stillness of her own – the pounding of blood in her ears sounded louder than usual. It wasn't anything new, definitely _wouldn't_ have been anything unusual, at least not from what she was used to. In the night hours - silence, nightfall to obscurity, the sounds and gloom of early morning, rough whispers, harsh cries – it was her typical standard. There was nothing different about this. There _shouldn't_ have been anything different at all.

But it was, _oh it was_.

 _His eyes -_ they shone too brightly in the dark, like liquid metal _\- the broad shoulders –_ she couldn't see the details of his skin but there was enough for her to know in terms of musculature Oliver Queen was a blessed man _\- so tall, his feet apart, blue eyes, really tall, large hands,_ _ **those**_ **eyes** _…_

The tension was as taught as a bow string.

A flare of light came from the storm ebbing outside; a flash of lightning that briefly illuminated him.

His eyes still stared into hers. Like steel traps.

 _Don't move._

Head tilted so very slightly, the total lack of recognition he was throwing down at her made her shiver. _He doesn't have a clue where he is, does he?_ And wherever he really was, it wasn't there with her.

Taking in the perilous edge to his gaze, _definitely isn't here;_ she tried hard not to focus onhow incredibly bad the situation was. He'd awakened in this strange place, a room he couldn't possibly call home, half asleep and no doubt it probably blasted his mind back to wherever his demons hide. _He's there right now. He's on the island._

Which meant if she so much as twitched her pinkie finger, he'd probably slice her throat.

 _Oh good. This is good. This is exactly what we both needed right now. Me lying here: exposed, him standing there: exposed…_

She maintained eye contact, trying to look past the ice there, _willing_ him to see her. _Please._

He didn't want to do this.

She didn't need to know him past the few hours she'd spent with him to know that he wouldn't react well later. He'd internalise it until it became twisted; another notch on what she suspected was an already very full dark belt of horrors.

 _Don't blink._ Sweat started to prickle against her chest. _Really? This isn't exactly the worst situation I've… close that door._ Agitation. _Think about it differently Felicity_ – as if her temporary houseguest wasn't standing before her, looking every inch the predator she thought him to be – _it's like Jurassic Park, with the Tyrannosaurus Rex. No. Sudden. Movements-_

A ripple of air forced through her; an unexpected breath that she'd needed and couldn't keep in. But it came out as a gasp.

 _Oh crap-a-doodle._

And his fingers jolted. Against the _knife,_ as if in reminder. _Oh yeah, the knife, couldn't forget the knife. Was it always that big? And sharp? So sharp, like it's actually making me conjure images of Halloween and Scream – that movie was about as scary as my big toe but now it's-_

And it was all the warning she had before he moved. And when he moved, he really moved. But her eyes caught everything.

 **Everything.**

One moment he was there, standing feet away from the foot of her bed. The next, the point of the knife was the only thing in her line of sight. So it was a fairly simple task - _for her_ \- to grasp the knife he initially swept forwards as he moved. Not in her hand, but between her big toe and long toe, rending it away with an arched leg so it flew into the wall next to her cupboard.

One thing about Felicity Smoak? Agile used as a descriptive didn't. Cut. It.

He faltered, mouth opening slightly but otherwise showed zero reaction to being so expeditiously disarmed. Oliver may have reminded her of a wolf but he was as big as a lion. His form could very easily enfold hers. His mind elsewhere; in dangerous foreign places, most likely crawling (his reactions were a _big_ indication) with wicked persons, he instinctively pressed forwards, the outline of his form suddenly looming, oppressing, as he pounced, almost lightning fast and slammed into her-

' _ **What did curiosity do to the cat… Miss Smoak?'**_

The voice – the memory of a voice - temporarily blinded her as his hand gripped just above the knee of her pyjama covered leg where her joints met and squeezed until she winced. A forearm shot forwards to press against her, his body stilling on top of her covers, knees braced on either side of the indentation her body _had_ been making…

With a thud she crashed to the floor, immediately righting herself on the balls of her feet. " _Oliver_!"

Her shout had him stiffening, his breath coming out in slow, giant heaves of his chest. His hands braced against the mattress were she'd pulled herself from under him. Yanking sideways she'd thrown herself to the floor and was now crouched, low by the bed, just inches from him.

 _Make myself the smaller target._ "Oliver," _repeat his name_ , "its _Felicity_. Felicity Smoak?" _And ignore the instinctive need to incapacitate him._

A small voice inside her flashed the image of him standing there just now and wondered, _can you?_

Her eyes flickered over him: he wasn't moving. The difference from just a moment ago made the sight a surreal one. "Do you remember? We came here… because you didn't want to go back to the Mansion?" She refrained from calling the Queen Mansion 'home' because he obviously didn't see it as such. _What should I even mention though? Jumping fences? Little Bird? Stanley knives and persimmons? Get a clue and fast._ "This is my home." She was just considering switching on her bedside lamp when he shifted, giving her the briefest view of his face, and paused.

The pupils of his eyes were blown wide; he looked terrified. But he was right there; he was back, in this moment.

Unintentionally, a small smile made its way to the surface; the type you wore for someone else rather than yourself. _There you are_. "Hi." She said, voice quiet as her fingers curled into the duvet – the words _'no touching'_ flashing like neon warning lights in her mind. Her chest tighter still tight from the memory he'd forced her to relive. "You okay?"

It was as if a bullet had been fired out of a great big gun: he scrambled backwards but before he could slip completely off the bed she jumped back on top of it, nimble and light. Something inside her was telling her what to do and she always listened to that little voice back there; _it's never led me astray before_.

Even in the dark she knew he could see the absolute lack of fear on her face. _It's not as if he didn't just freak me out; but it wouldn't help at all, for him or for me, if I started screaming. Though I kind of want to…and maybe get some ice cream…_

Oliver focused on her and he was still breathing as though he'd run a marathon. "I'm sorry."

It was stunning really how very different he was right now. Especially to how he'd been for most of the night: aloof, efficient, and lethal yet… _soft_ too. So strange.

His voice was a rasp, yet higher and fearful as he spoke, shaking his head when he saw her open her mouth. "I-I'm so… _so_ sorry." He hadn't blinked, not at all and for once she saw the prey he'd once been rather than the predator that'd stood so soundly before her in the mansion. And again in her living room. "I can't-I… I wasn't…" There was a clear defensive quality to the way he held himself at the end of her bed. Like how a child would cower when threatened with an adult's hand. Or fist. Or foot. "I should go. I shouldn't be here."

But he didn't move, still rooted to the spot.

Weighed down.

Felicity habitually tilted her head, trying to figure him out. "Why are you punishing yourself for something you obviously can't help?" She asked, breaking the silence.

Head and eyes shooting up - _holy whiplash_ \- he frowned at her. His breathing – she could hear it perfectly - had slowed to a crawl now; _well he certainly gets over things quickly._

 _Her_ heart was still slamming into her rib cage. It was actually kind of worrying how with every second her chest grew tighter and tighter.

Otherwise she felt _completely_ calm, yup. Or so she told herself. _Breathe, just breathe._

"You didn't know that you might have PTSD?" Her tone suggested it was kind of freaking obvious that he _did_ but by the furrow etching deeper into the bridge of his nose he probably didn't even know himself that he had it. "It isn't like I'm a doctor or anything. But you've been through something most couldn't understand. Did you honestly think you could…?" Keeping eye contact she searched for the right words. "Did you think that you could actually come home and not be affected in some way?"

His 'normal' had been on the island of Lian Yu or wherever he'd been the past five years. This new environment; one filled with missed family, friends and old haunts could be deemed, at least from his perspective, as unsettling. It could have been the reason he was pulled from his sleep, the reason why when waking he'd retreated into himself; a place that understood waking in strange environments.

A place that knew how to wield knives.

Not odd. Or mysterious. Not at all. This wasn't making her want to know more about the supremely attractive Mr Queen, not one bit!

 _Yep, that's a thought I needed to revisit._ It wasn't incorrect: she was already heating up. Burning. _Burning?_ Wait… _Oh. Oh no. Not again; twice in one day? What's wrong with me?_

The tips of her fingers felt _heavy_.

There was this unspeakable awareness between them now though, strangers as they were; with him sitting there - his index finger and thumb were pressed against each other – and the large space between them… the rising tide of energy within demanding her attention, her… _obedience_.

It whispered ' _you must, you will, you have to'._

Felicity Smoak was her own worst enemy.

And it isn't that she gets panic attacks per se. She doesn't panic at all. Not really. She just has an overabundance of adrenaline screaming for release. It _makes_ her loose it when that energy receives no outlet. Add that to the mystery of Oliver Queen and-

"I'm sorry." He was speaking again, a mere murmur. "You-"

Whatever she was, is or isn't - she didn't hear. She was already out of the room.

A blur of movement so impossible to divine that her own eyes could barely see around her, but she was sure that she made Oliver topple off the bed with the force of her leap from it.

He didn't make a sound.

She couldn't speak. Could barely breathe; everything was closing in and turning sideways but she managed to sprint and stumble into her bathroom, the door banging back against the wall on its hinges.

Later when she looked back she'd remember this in shots of light and colour: how her hands smacked against the mirror of the cabinet as she choked on nothing, how the ringing in her ears made her feel like she'd topple sideways in seconds as her peripheral vision blurred, her primary vision shrinking away as if looking through a pair of binoculars.

So obviously her first, second and third reach for her pills was a failure. _Come on, come ON!_ Like a wave of light-headedness ascended from her toes, up to her shoulders and _down_.

It was as a truly frightening feeling to have your brain working faster than it ever has as your body lags further and further behind. Her muscle control was almost non-existent but as her other hand made the attempt to shoot out for the glass tumbler next to the sink, it was an aim straight and true-

The glass shattered before her fingertips could ghost the surface.

It didn't touch her: the slow rewind of the event, the spider webs on the glass, and the sound of breaking - shock forcefully rendered her still.

 _No…_

Her eyes stayed glued to the now empty space. It had been years. Literally. _Years_.

… _I've never lost control before. Not since then._ She'd tried. So. Hard. To keep it inside _._

 _Why now?_

Panic set in; it's encampment irrevocable. Everything started to slip away from her. Control. The light. Now the warmth. Until only an echo of reason remained, a need to _get her damn pills!_

If she hadn't been so surrounded by herself she'd have felt him; his slow – she was probably as strange to him as he was to her right now - and watchful progress behind her.

She heard a voice first: decidedly masculine, a foreign sound in her house, but the words were distorted. Plastic fell from her palm and she was sure she whimpered at the loss - she _hated_ this - the control slipping through her fingers, her vision all but darkness.

Then there was warmth. And water. And everything in her focused on it like a shark.

 _Intrusion._

Instinctively - she couldn't see him - wrenching the cautious hand suddenly reaching for her away she jerked from him, blindly forcing her body into the corner wall. But the heat and skin – it followed her. He followed.

 _What is he-no. I don't want-_

Roughly, firmly, the hand came back and slid fast into her loose hair - as if stopping itself from second guessing the action - gripping it tightly and she pushed against the arm there. The very strong arm there. _Geez. Muscles._ And that was about as loquacious as she could get at this point. Irrational fright lanced in her spine allowing momentarily for some coordinated movement. But he bracketed her, _oof,_ and she was so incredibly weak she couldn't stop him; this was out of the norm for her, debilitating and frightening as it was. Her forearms smacked against his oddly damp, _EXTREMELY_ solid chest - at any other time 'wow' and 'ooh' would be freely considered as vocal options without shame along with a detailed diagnostic of every groove, muscle and curve (the ones that she could reach without coming across as the biggest pervert and let's face it; chances were slim) - as she fought, if you could call it that. Which it wasn't.

But his biceps crushed her against him.

 **Him**

This was Oliver Queen. A stranger. He was doing this, whatever 'this' is.

Regardless of how she was trying to stop him – strength was virtually 'anywhere but here' for her – the hand in her hair pulled her head back. _Hey! He needs to stop touching me, he needs to stop, it's too hot,_ her body couldn't make its mind up, _and too close,_ _too hot, get back-_ she pushed against him automatically, not meaning to but he kept her in place. Smooth but hard; like steel beneath velvet, his stomach crushed into her arms. Surprise stunned her and before she knew it a pill was dropped in her mouth, from a distance; she didn't feel the pressure of fingers – and she automatically swallowed it.

 _He's trying to help._ It was followed by a thimble of water. _He's just trying to help._

Anywhere else, any other time and she would have hurt him. Would have had to.

Instead she focused on her air intake as the world about her faded. _Bring it in._ It took everything she had, every breath and gasp of air to retract herself and whatever it was inside her that was trying so hard to get out. _Hold it there._

On the precipice of awareness and sheer panic she floated, listening to her heartbeat rage madly in her ears. It was all she could hear as she waited to come down. _Come on_.

It took a moment for her to realise that the palm of her left hand was still pressed against skin.

 _Just_ the palm of her hand.

 _He must have stepped back. Good._

 **Thump-thump…. Thump-thump…. Thump-thump….**

His heartbeat.

 _Oh._

Her hand was resting on his chest, his heart – must have sought it out unconsciously – and it was her only point of contact, her only port in the storm created within her body.

 **Thump-thump…. Thump-thump…. Thump-thump….**

A strong beat. Vital. Necessary. Alive. _Controlled_.

It hurt part of her to realise that her fingers had formed claws, which were now digging firmly into his skin.

 _Please just… give me a moment here. In this space._

So the rest of her could concentrate on lowering her Road Runner heart beat in accordance with his very steady paced one. In fact his heart rate hadn't been raised at all during their little… _scuffle? Did I really just scuffle with Oliver Queen?_

If mortification had a name, that name would be 'Felicity'.

 **Thump-thump…. Thump-thump…. Thump-thump….**

With every slow breath his chest lifted her hand – _why isn't he moving away? Most would have. This must be borderline freaky, even for him. No:_ _especially_ _for him. Living on a desert island wouldn't exactly have made him partial to physical contact. Maybe._ She wasn't going to pretend that she knew what she was talking about.

Her left hand flexed; her fingers unintentionally stretching against his pectoral.

 _It's very… firm. Ahem._ Normally she'd have blushed or babbled but it made her relax. Completely. He was so present, so very 'here and now' that the mere pump of blood flowing without conscious thought under the skin she pressed down on brought everything screaming inside her to an peculiar silence.

He _felt_ strong enough- _No. No he isn't. No one is._

No one. Not to take… _that_.

 _And it's fine_. It'd been fine for a long time. Until tall, dirty-blond and elusive came along and made her brain go poof. This was so not how her day was supposed to go. It was like something out of a book she'd once read. Before today she'd never seen eyes that could look like that; so painfully blue and closed off.

 _Oliver Queen: the conundrum._

Something else that she'd noticed, _completely_ _objectively of course, I mean… yeah…_

He was… clammy. Moist. As if he'd ran a fever.

Taking one of the precious seconds he was allowing her for some reason Felicity, during her deep breathing, took in the scent that permeated her skin through contact with his.

 _Rain water._ He'd had a window open. _Whilst he slept?_ It made sense on a purely primal level: _island nightlife will do that to you I suppose._

 _Let. Him. Go._

Eventually her physical cognizance, always the last thing to come back, told her exactly where she'd ended up. And as always it was embarrassing. She kept the groan in. _Oh it would be like this wouldn't it?_ Her face was mushed into the crevice between the cabinet and the wall - she must have folded in on herself. _Like a penguin._ Cold sweat left a cool trail across her forehead and she was pretty sure she had the worst case of bed head in the history of all bed heads. Add to that how every muscle in her body was starting to scream 'abuse' and yep, _probably won an award somewhere for banshee queen._

And all this in front of Mr Queen.

 _Oh god. This is why I'm still single._ She was very tempted to curl up and hide somewhere, in a place preferably dark. And high up, which went against every other baser instinct she possessed; she used to have a very real fear of heights but now, due to outside forces, it was more of a dull murmur.

"I'm really sorry."

For all her internal griping her voice was more a rasp than words. Plus, she was kind of terrified about his response. About how he might be looking at her right now. _Typical Felicity Smoak right? Breaking down in front of my boss's son? A man just returned home from five years on an island, a man who really didn't need any of this-_

"It's…" _Frack: he's talking_. "It wasn't your fault."

 _Er… say what?_

Forehead pressed against wood - _you can do this_ \- she took in a few large gulps of air before opening her eyes. She was biting her lip before she could even see his face but when she did - ignoring how great he looked even though she knew he'd about as fitfully as she – he spoke again.

His expression was unreadable – his hands completely still.

"It's mine." _My fault_ , his eyes seemed to say. They could and did say a lot, those eyes.

He was really puzzling her this time.

Purposefully, she didn't focus on anything other than his face; her arm was - thankfully - kind of blocking the view of the rest of him. She should remove it, she really should. Yet she didn't. For reasons. Good ones. But her brain wasn't processing his claim, because _what did he just say? How is it his fault?_

Her head starting shaking left to right before she'd even finished her thoughts but he continued, looking as if every word was painful for him. Not because they hurt to say but maybe because… he wasn't used to saying them. Words concerning feelings and emotions – his own or others - and _depth_. Complexity. Gravity. Words that pulled upon your self-possessed notions.

Words have more power than a sword or a gun.

Step by very passive step, he inhaled. "I crossed a line. I… scared you." It was spoken like a question and, nodding to himself – already deciding – his head dipped slightly, as if in contrition. "I don't understand what just happened but I know I scared you. I do know that." His Adam's apple moved in a deep swallow.

Felicity was simply stunned. Though Mr Queen was still oddly centred, focused and calm… where was the aloof, ice machine from last night?

 _The mystery continues._ "You didn't frighten me."

The frank - borderline challenging – expression on his face, though a preferable alternative to the 'out of place puppy' look she'd glimpsed, irked her. He didn't know her beyond their brief talks the previous evening, yet already he'd decided just exactly what and how she was feeling.

"You didn't." She stressed, eyebrows raised.

He blinked. "You had a panic attack."

"It wasn't a panic attack."

A solitary arched brow called her on it.

"It _wasn't_." Blowing out a breath she took a moment because, _oh god I'm actually going to try to explain the riddle that is me,_ and continued. "I have excess adrenaline."

His eyes flickered away from her then back again. "What?"

"Excess adrenaline. Clinically it works the same way panic attacks do and it should give me a few benefits but – no. If I don't vent it somehow, if I don't…" How to explain the inexplicable unexplainable? "If I don't get rid of the surplus then…" She gestured down herself. "This happens. My body shuts down. Like an overload." Or worse.

She makes things shatter.

His arched brow fell in favour of a tiny furrow on the bridge of his nose. _Hmm, I like that… a little too much._

There was a moment's silence and when he looked like he wanted to say something Felicity spoke again. "I understand that waking in strange places can do things to a person. I get that." Then straightened her slumped lean against the wall, looking him in the eye. "I do." She added softly. "I should be apologising really, for freaking out. And for groping you. I'm _still_ groping you."

And she really was; her hand was absolutely still pressing hard against his heartbeat- _and that's enough of that._ She retracted her hand so swiftly it became a bur at her side. "Sorry." He must have sensed how much she'd needed it in order for him to have stayed still. Perceptive, intuitive sensitivity was a trait absent in many a man. _He must think I'm such a…_ "About that." A nervous giggle, which sounded more like a strangled whine of pure embarrassment, left her – made so much worse by how stoic he was being. "Not that I'm sorry about touching you." _Frack._ He was giving her this look: deadly serious - _help_ \- but there was something else there too. She couldn't read it. "I'm pretty sure anyone would want to touch you. Just not me." _What?_ His brow quirked; it had a personality all on its own. "I mean I definitely _would_ want to but…" His sharp blink - _how can a blink even be sharp_ \- had her backfiring quicker than a canon. "But I wouldn't! Because I'm not that type of person." _This amount of mortification shouldn't be possible._ "Even though you are-your… y-you you are…" Oh wow. " _Glorious_."

Slowly, so very slightly, his mouth opened.

But he really was.

Gloriously half-naked.

 _Really?_ It had taken her this long to see that he was wearing the sweat pants she'd bought him and _only_ his sweat pants? _I lose points on being a woman for that._ Not that it was the specific point that needed attention here.

With his eyebrows shooting up to his hairline, she was pretty sure this was the most surprised he'd been with a person in years. Not that it was a good thing. Not at all.

But…

She couldn't feel apologetic, not even a little, for the slip. For no marble or stone statue, no figurine or depiction by Michelangelo could even attempt to describe the reason for her impenitence.

He was beautiful.

Not classically: not 'perfect' or 'without error'.

Previously, she'd never seen a chest so _ripped_ in all her life and she'd been around enough men in her time to make her wonder _why the hell not_. His musculature was astounding. In her woeful experience of the male form she had thought that men didn't, couldn't, really look like that, not in reality. Not unless they were staring in a movie. Or they took steroids; an unattractive alternative: it warped the body, made your neck and chin protrude and elongate, made veins appear like spider webs in odd places, deformed facial muscles…

It was very evident Oliver Queen had never taken a single dose of steroids in his life.

100% au natural. And it would haunt her for many nights to come. Boy, would it haunt her.

The smooth circumference of the column of his throat, outlined by the virile line of his jaw – because in every aspect Oliver screamed 'male'; he'd make Brad Pitt jealous – as it dipped into his collarbone and really, it started there. The collarbone of all places. It was in her line of sight. Emboldened by the sheer distinction of his enhanced musculature – _drool worthy comes directly to mind_ – it cradled and stencilled what she could only describe as a thoroughly worked upon chest-

 _Is that… what is that?_

No. She knew _exactly_ what  that was; the star shaped insignia decorating his left pectoral.

 **Solntsevskaya Bratva**.

The Brotherhood. The biggest and most powerful crime syndicate of the Russian Mafia.

She stared at it, her mind screaming information at her.

Quick question: with the possibility for a horrifying answer. How does Oliver Queen, the once and now again future heir of the Queen family, a man who'd been serving a five year sentence for no crime on an island out in the China Sea, come to have the inductive emblem framed so eloquently on his chest?

It wasn't something you could just get. From anyone anywhere. People were killed for making dumb calls like that one: impersonation was punishable by murder. She'd done her research. Given that the group (Soln) was existentially so young – founded in the 1980's by Sergei Mikhailov, a former waiter believe it or not – it was still surprising to have found that they had a reach in Starling City. The Russian Mafia itself held ties and history originating back to the Russian Imperial Era of the Tsars in the 1700's. But it wasn't until the Soviet Era that the _Vory V Zakone_ , the 'Thieves-in-Law' emerged as leaders of various prison groups in gulags that an honour code amongst criminals was conceived. A long arm with a solid memory. In the world there were a few known branches of the organisation such as the Tambov, the Grekov and the Uralmash gangs but the Solntsevskaya Bratva is Russia's largest criminal group. And there was one in Starling: a group that operates on the basis of immediate reciprocal favours.

It didn't make sense to have the mark there, on _his_ chest. Oliver Queen's chest. So stupidly close to enquiring as to how he'd received such a mark when he'd been deserted for 5 years when she remembered…

People lie. They change.

Especially when the truth was so much more terrifying to admit than the façade that seemed to please the world around you. A façade that shouldn't have fit but _did_. Because it was easy. Easier for the mind to fathom.

 _He'd been presumed dead on an island… right?_

"Felicity?"

Her gaze flashed briefly back to his. "Um…" Briefly in that it fixated almost immediately back on his chest. Cause, _Guh_.

"You just said…" Since she couldn't see his face; his tone was her only lead on how he was faring right now. By the sound of it, 'completely flummoxed, bewildered and… beguiled' didn't seem so far off the mark. Beguiled. Wow. Then again, mystified worked too. Or maybe she was daydreaming: it was a very early morning and a hard chest and a Bratva tattoo will tend to do that to a girl. "You said I was," he cleared his throat, "glorious. Just now."

He asked in such a way that made her think he thought her little freak out had mental incapacitated her.

"Uh-huh." Yep, she had. Not that she could concentrate on how she'd sounded like a depraved artisan examining the most exquisite piece on site.

Not when she was faced with such obscenely cut abdominal muscles beneath the tattoo oddity that her attention was so focused upon. _Not_ so focused that she, at least briefly, couldn't appreciate washboard abs. And washboard didn't cut it. 'Defined' was the operative word. After seeing him in the mansion she'd been flummoxed as to how broad he was but this… _You don't get a set like that from lying in the sun on a desolate beach somewhere._

It wasn't crazy, was it? Thinking that maybe he might have… No, she was being crazy. Absurd. She didn't know him at all. _He's been shipwrecked for years. Head in the now Felicity. This isn't a comic book._

Unfortunately… Felicity's life could, in many ways, fit inside fiction quite nicely.

 _Mental shake_. "Um I…" Her voice broke and she closed her eyes temporarily in reproach. "You're…"

"Felicity?"

He sounded so confused it was almost funny. _Almost_.

Beautiful body. Bratva Tattoo.

Her eyes snapped open to find him silently scrutinizing her.

"How?" She blurted out, gesturing to the whole of him. _I had my hand on that; I think I have a type._

"Sorry?"

"I mean…" _Get a word out Felicity; it doesn't normally take so long_. "You've got to be kidding me!"

His eyes side-lined; flickering to the left and back again, double time. "I don't understand."

Her mouth fell open. "You're body's incredible. H-how…"

"Huh?"

"It's like you've been photo-shopped on top of yourself."

"It… is?"

"Seriously?"

He shook his head, sounding a little flustered. "I don't _understand_ what you _mean_."

She had an urge to stomp her foot; _yeah, that won't add to the mortification_. And then she said words. Again. When she specifically ordered herself to refrain from doing so in front of Mr Oliver Queen in the near future. At least until he'd acclimated; no point forcing him to confront this epic scale social mess too soon – too little too late. "I'm telling you, you have the most amazing, _BEAUTIFUL_ body I have ever seen - in my _life_ \- and your response is 'I don't _understand_?'"

The very brief satisfaction she felt at witnessing Oliver's expression turn from complete bewilderment to honest shock, the light of his irises flaring aquamarine as his pupils dilate, did _not_ make up for the resounding _doom_ her words had on her cerebral cortex.

 _I actually said that. To his face. And we'll both remember it. Forever…_

"Beautiful…" Expressionless but with eyes so, _so_ wide he stared at her. "I don't… _what_?"

She blinked. _Didn't think he'd get the same mental constipation I suffer from._ 404 error. Brain does not compute. _An honest reaction. Finally; now we're getting somewhere_. Biting her lip, a finger pointing from his collarbone down to his abdominal v-line she nodded.

His eyes searched the room as if it held answers before looking down at his uncovered chest. "I'm… damaged." And his tone again screamed _'I don't understand'_.

"Damaged?"

As if she were mentally unstable he pronounced each syllable with perfect clarity. "The _marks_?" Wounds. Blemishes. Injuries. Mementoes.

Her mouth opened, _oh_. "You mean your scars?"

"Yes." His tone was to the point. "My scars." And expectant.

"What about them?"

I mean, of course she'd noticed them. Hard not to. Super hard, in _every_ sense of the word, _God yes._ The man looked like an angel. Or a demon. And the scars? The marks, the visible harsh reality of five long years – and she wouldn't, WOULDN'T delve into the fact that she recognised the pattern of several of the scars and had already mentally associated them to which _tool_ had been used – on a… ahem,  deserted island… _I am not going there. I'm not doing it. I'm_ _not_ _._

The evidence of just who he was and all he'd been through was painted graphically on his skin. It took her breath away. Literally. Yes, he was marred. He had scars. Several.

It wasn't a _massive_ deal. Right? Scars were scars; but what kind of significance did Oliver put on them, she wondered, that made him look at her as if she'd just supernaturally appeared out of thin air and declared that up was down?

The contrast of the light in her bathroom shining on his skin really emboldened each and every piece of cruelty exceled down upon him. A brutalised trophy of life. Forged in fire and steel. It made him look so strong.

And so… lonely.

"Scars aren't exactly a sign of damage Oliver." She immediately backtracked. "Well, they _are_ , in the sense that you received a physical injury at some point; ergo, scar. But in no way does 'scar' equal to 'damage'. Or ' _damaged'_. And definitely not the 'damage' I know that you're referring to."

He just stared at her. _Problem_.

Then he just shook his head, as if pushing the more perplexing things to back of his brain. _To scourge later with a mental brillo-pad, probably_. "And that's why you were staring?"

And of course she spoke without thinking; she was standing in front of approximately six feet of 'wow', give a girl a break. "Oh hell yes." Felicity swore that she almost choked on her own saliva. _Incorrect answer_. "I's-y-your… It's, you're…" _Not. Good_.

"It's? You're?" He pressed.

"It's you're abs!"

"My _abs_?"

"So much abs right there and," she gulped, "did I mention that abs are a girl's greatest weakness?"

His lips pressed together.

She bit down on hers.

…And then his eyes just… _wow_. There was no other word for it. They lit _up_. Up and up. _Pretty_. His lips pressed even harder together – like he was forcing back a smile; _no seriously, he looked like he was about 2 seconds away from hysterical laughter, which was very weird_ – and a brow lifted. But rather than the sharp ridge she'd become used to, it was more of a soft bump. A ' _hey'_. There was an ounce of confusion still very much present but…

"…You're checking me out?"

 _Bu-uh?_

He asked like he didn't believe it. Couldn't. Like it was the last thing in world that he'd been expecting. Not that she could compute his tone: her mouth opened and closed; a dying moose noise sounding faintly from her oesophagus.

When she saw him bite the inside of his cheek she was compelled to form words – never a good idea when Zeus is standing right there. "You're standing there half naked; what did you want me to do? Ignore how incredibly hot you are?!"

As if someone had punched him, the exhale he must have been holding in broke free from his mouth in a burst of a raspy voice and steady gasps: breathy… laughter?

 _Oh God._ She slapped a hand over her mouth and stared, wide eyed at him. Then a smile – one that she couldn't help – spread over her lips at the sheer surprise in his eyes. "In my experience, guys generally don't like that. Girl's ignoring their hotness." She mumbled behind her hand.

It was spoken so frankly Oliver couldn't fight against it.

"Not that I think you're hot." She continued.

 _Uh huh._

He dragged a hand over his face as if to wipe away all traces of the smile that had erupted. But his eyes were still bright. He didn't say another word.

And she needed to fill the silence. "My mouth kind of runs away with me." She said, dropping her hand and grimacing.

He just looked at her, nodding. Agreeing? _Oops_.

Lacing her fingers together - gripping them and tying knots – she cleared her throat, nervously. "Do you want a coffee?"

He blinked at the swift change of subject and shifted. "Isn't it a little early… for you?"

"I'd be getting up in half an hour anyway. I run." She added at his questioning look he adopted. "Part of the whole adrenalin thing."

"You aren't tired?"

The wording of that threw her a little: most would ask 'aren't you tired'? 'You aren't tired', implies a level of - let's say – confidence, that should really be absent between strangers.

"Nope."

"…Okay."

* * *

 **05:54am, Queen Mansion**

Coffee had been safe.

The safest route of choice for her, the dangerous route being continued discussion of Oliver's very fine six pack, which had still been on clear display.

 _Okay,_ he'd said.

They'd both retreated downstairs to the kitchen; Oliver following her lead and she'd felt his stare, just like in Little Bird's, on the back of her neck the whole time. It was still present as she pulled out a stool for him to sit upon. As she pressed the power button on her coffee machine and waited for it to brew. As she passed him one of her many very _normal_ \- Robin Hood's, Star Wars and Looney Tunes, ahem - very large mugs and he'd said _thank you_ , so quietly.

He'd simply… watched her do it. His forearms and elbows resting on the surface of her rectangular kitchen island, eyes tracking her, and though his back was straight his face was otherwise calm. As if relaxed by the obvious familiarity she possessed with each appliance.

And he didn't put his shirt back on. Didn't retrieve it from the guest bedroom. Didn't make any effort to cover himself. At. All.

Seeing him sat before her, as he sipped her strong coffee, his shoulders, pectorals and upper abdominals all working in major fine working order and showing above the pine table top… it didn't help her concentration. Nothing in Felicity's life had prepared her for seeing a half-naked Oliver Queen.

She'd hidden her face behind her own mug.

Conversation had been little to none. But that was fine. It had been fine. Required. Comfortable even; them both sitting in the dark, drinking strong coffee, her in her pyjama pants and t-shirt and him, practically perfect in every way. The sun hadn't even risen yet and it wasn't odd at all, them both being so awake, fully aware. Eventually he attempted a further apology and had discovered how completely 'not bothered' she was by the whole thing. Her words, _about what?_ And her expression, 'something happened?' They told him everything.

Eventually… the time came for him to go… home? The Queen Mansion?

The exhale that left him when she mentioned it had sounded like a dead weight and she'd wished immediately that she hadn't opened her mouth at all. "I should probably go back. Go..." He pressed down on his lips and attempted the word. "Go home."

Felicity had swallowed the last of her coffee. "Okay." She'd whispered.

His replying nod had felt even heavier.

She'd offered him her shower, which he accepted and she… thought about it. A lot. Too much. Oliver Queen, naked in her apartment. Oliver, wet, naked and oh so dangerous… _Oh, boy_. She'd practically sprinted into the guest bedroom to place his now neatly folded - extremely high priced, 'make a commoner such as herself nervous as hell' – jeans and shirt on the bed before running back downstairs and out of his way.

She'd just thrown on her running pants and loose sweatshirt: she'd still go for her run. And after the morning's performance… Oliver Queen had seen her almost at her worst. Her most gross – with the bedhead and complete freak-out. If there was a chance he'd have given her a second look in real life she'd just kyboshed it.

Hair up in a loose bun Felicity now pulled up outside the second gate of the Queen Mansion.

The rain had finally ceased about 30 minutes before and had given the environment a damp, abject look about it that she kind of liked but also kind of didn't. It had both cleansed the world and drowned it. And though the car ride back to the Mansion had been much less awkward than the journey away from it, the atmosphere inside the vehicle now closely resembled the bleak view of the world outside.

Again, he wasn't helping in this.

It wasn't that he looked miserable; he truly didn't. And he didn't appear tired or stressed or even angry. He didn't seem… anything. There was nothing there to see. No enthusiasm, no thought of contentment at seeing his family, no anxious twitching, and no deliberate drumming of fingers against dashboards… A big fat nothing. Zilch. Zero.

And unlike the previous evening he wasn't even observing his environment, wasn't taking in every inch and aspect of her too clean and tidy car.

Sometimes… sometimes he'd look at her. As if he were wondering who she was and why she was doing any of this at all. Mere flitches of movement. It was fitting in a way, she supposed. She baffled him. It was a definite improvement over any apathetic alternative. But the brief – epically brief – glances – like an ADHD imperative – were few and far between. Oliver Queen was not, by any definition, an open book, window or doorway. He was 100% closed off to the world and to her, even more so than the night before as he simply looked outside the front window of her car; seeing nothing but the world inside his head.

And that was okay. They were still strangers. Well… after their '1 in a million chance' morning she supposed 'acquaintances' worked better.

But it was like he was made out of stone. Or steel. The moment they'd both taken their seats, locking tight their doors, he shut down. Any glimpse of the man she'd been having coffee with had vanished. _Okay_ … With raised brows she'd dismissed it, slowly backing out of her parking space, dawn not even a glint on the skyline. October in Starling usually alluded to dark mornings.

It took her a few minutes to realise that maybe this was just his version of being incredibly deep in thought. Let's face it: Oliver Queen was a bit of a weirdo. _Like me_ , she thought with a smile. He'd caught her like that too and after watching for a moment, turned to look back out of the window. _Probably wondering why I'm, well, me._ All was well.

At least it had been.

"Well, here we are." A piece of her died inside: _obviously he knows where we are._ But she couldn't take the silence any longer. They'd been sitting outside the Queen Mansion, in front of the second set of iron gates for almost ten minutes and neither had said a word.

Not that it was uncomfortable, which was all kinds of odd - _truly, it was kind of relaxing, not needing to speak but being contented enough to not have to_ – it was just that, wasn't he supposed to be, _oh I don't know_ , going inside? To talk some more with people he'd left behind? To start learning what it was to be at peace in the hubbub of a sprawling city? To demonstrate how alright it was at how _not-okay_ he might be right now. To give himself a break; to gorge on Big Belly Burger until you throw up, to drink and drink until you're ironically dried up of all emotion.

I mean really, what was the modus operandi for returning from the dead?

"Here we are." He reiterated.

He was still staring out at the Mansion and Felicity wanted so much to just say the right thing for once instead of babble incessantly.

And then, like the proverbial light bulb, an idea came to mind. One she really should have considered first before offering. Because it would truly set events in motion that she couldn't possibly have portended.

"Oliver?" She asked, reaching behind her – no, literally arching like some gone with the wind ballerina – and pulling out a rucksack from under the backseat.

He looked at her, eyes flickering to the bag she'd already delved a hand inside and frowning slightly when she pulled out a smart phone.

"It's a burner phone." She explained and his eyes slammed back up into her. _That's going to take some getting used to_ , she cleared her throat "It's my back-up. I have back-ups for my back-ups: I'm neurotically thorough." She shook her head in self-derision and his brow line smoothed out. _Point to me!_ "My contact details are on there. The point being that you know if you…" _God, how do I put this?_ "Need anything or if you want to talk to… a complete stranger," She added, smiling slightly, "one who wouldn't judge anything you say, just an easy ear or even if you just want a place to hide for a while…" She licked her lips at how he wasn't giving her _anything_ in response. "Give me a call." And shrugged a solitary shoulder. "Or you know, if you just want another pear."

Finally, something in his face settled and softened. "I don't know; those persimmons kind of grew on me." He mumbled, the sides of his lips curving.

Practically beaming at him she watched as he opened the door at his right and slid in one graceful step from her car. Before closing it he bent and locked eyes with her. "Thank you… Felicity."

"You're welcome… Oliver."


	5. Chapter 5

**Question Everything. Learn Something. Answer Nothing.**

 _ **(Euripides)**_

 **Oliver, Queen Mansion, Foyer, 06:03am**

The Mansion doors closed shut behind him and the blunt sound of it echoed in the silence of the morning.

Oliver paused, standing still before them. He already had a key – found on his bed after his shower the previous evening – and the familiarity of it, of him waltzing back on into the Queen home once again felt… unnatural. Every step was uncomfortable for him. So he didn't move, letting himself have the moment.

He looked to the floor.

Last night…

 _I almost killed her. Held a knife to her throat. Or tried to…_

One second the knife was in his hand, the next it wasn't. And he didn't remember how-

 _-Curious, his eyes found the hilt of the knife protruding from her bedroom wall and he stole inside as she wandered away, grasping the handle-_

But it was as if she took complete control of the situation, making him feel less the bad guy – not even a victim, as if she wouldn't allow it – and more someone who'd simply had a bad night's sleep.

 _She didn't ask any questions._ It was odd: most would have. _And then after, when she…_ when she'd ran for it. And he'd followed; feeling an unusual lack of discomfort with all of it.

 _Then_ he'd had no idea what to do. But he'd still done it. Not because he'd _had_ to. He'd _chosen_ to. And when it was over, in the early pre-dawn hours it hadn't felt awkward or forced, it hadn't been a lie. It should have been, he'd set out for it to be, intended to use her as a vehicle for his own ends… but it hadn't. He didn't.

Felicity Smoak had made it impossible for him.

In the days that followed the person who he had to be - who he knew _how_ to be – would be marked down in society as his true self. Yet his first night in Starling City would be the most honest of them all.

With a stranger.

 _I should have just asked her to take me home._

Looking down at the phone in his grip, a device he figured must have cost at least 100$, Oliver narrowed his gaze, instinctively pushing the button at the side and watching in wonder as the screen lit up. There were these… _icons_ everywhere.

… _But I'm glad I didn't._

* * *

 **Arrowhead Point, Tudor's Way**

 _I'm not going to think about this._ Felicity nodded to herself, checking the rear-view mirror. _I'm going to leave it alone. For now anyway._

It was running through her head - _why would I even do that?_ \- that she'd given Oliver her spare _untraceable_ \- not really - Smartphone (calling it a Smartphone didn't cut it either) with top of the line specs – unable to help herself she'd tampered with it, _hah, obviously, it's me,_ seriously there was a GPS locator on that thing – and that she'd offered him a way in, when there was a very good chance he wouldn't even want one… _Face it; it was probably the first and last time I'll ever talk to Robert Queen's son._

In her reality it was a way of making sure he was okay, that he'd _be_ okay. At least to some approximation of 'okay'. And a sure fire way of… well, keeping tabs on the elusive creature who'd returned home the day before. _Not that I'd spy on him or anything; even I wouldn't go that far._ It was just… he'd touched her - _emotionally, not the other fun kind of touching, though I was definitely very guilty of that; I'm sure god would forgive me just this once since I figure even he (if God is a male – makes more sense if it's a 'she', if we're placing God on a gender pedestal) would touch Oliver Queen if the man stood before him/her half naked_.

…And Oliver Queen had smiled.

 _Hmm._

Placing her car into park, now back in front of her home, Felicity gave herself a mental shake. She couldn't allow herself the time her brain wanted to commit to this; she had more important matters to attend to.

 _Like James Holder._

Which reminded her to also find out who the police had issued Adam Hunt's profile to. Whichever DA took his case would have their hands full. But Felicity wanted, needed, to make sure it'd be worth it. That she hadn't canvassed the man's database during a late at night - or very early in the morning – stealth run, that she hadn't slipped a 'worm' onto his personal hard drive in his private office, situated in his moderately secure business building where all his dirty secrets were – idiotically - stored.

And tonight… tonight she had an appointment she couldn't miss. With Martin Summers: the owner and CEO of Starling City Port. A man who took _bribes_ \- and was still between his current payoff - from the Chinese Triad, who protected him; their _investment_ , to bring in drugs (Cocaine, Cannabis, Meth and Heroine) to Starling City… this liaison she'd discovered after monitoring the Harbour traffic.

Why had she been monitoring the Harbour Traffic? Well…

Carlos Vuentes had, on occasion, used the same Port for his trade. The trafficking of young boys.

And now he was in jail.

Her lips curled… she nodded to herself.

 _Let's get to work._

* * *

 **Merlyn Mansion, Tommy's bedroom, 06:34am**

Tommy Merlyn stared up at the ceiling.

He was _thinking_. A surprising – perhaps dangerous - new pastime for him.

He'd promised himself he'd be good. Or at least he'd try to be; he'd _kind_ of behave and sort of, _maybe_ , slow down - just a tad.

Last night? He came to a full and complete stop. And he was still stunned with himself.

Originally, after a late dinner with the Queen family at around 08:00pm, his first instinct had been to be traditional.

Go to a bar.

Any bar. Pick up a girl, take it from there - _and by 'there' I mean 'me' and by 'me' I mean 'with a girl's hands on my junk'_ -the sheer excitement, the joy, the general anxiety followed by the drop of doubt he'd felt throughout the evening had surged through him making sleep all but impossible.

His best friend was back. _Back from the dead!_ It was unreal! _This has to call for some kind of celebration_ – he was already mentally picking places, choosing specific types of booze, deciding which gorgeous face Oliver would want to bang for the evening because in Tommy's mind there was no way Oliver _wouldn't_ want to – _he hasn't had sex in five years, Jesus; of course he wants to_. Tommy would make sure of it. A long night of banging which girl, when and where followed by a greasy breakfast with his best pal. _Right_?

Right?

 _But Ollie_ … he'd been so quiet.

 _That was normal right? Maybe he just needed to loosen up._

Breathing deeply he moved his arms to rest behind his head on the pillow. _Yeah, he was probably tired from a night at the hospital; the few times we'd been there in the past we'd never slept. Noooo_ , they'd played with the **nurses**. He grinned at the memory of Ollie (who'd had one hell of a shiner) and Nurse 'Sweet' – _honest to God; that was her name_ – locking the closet door behind them as he in turn shut the blinders around his bedside so that Mellissa 'Whoever' could get down on her knees.

 _Good times._

So it pretty much cinched it for Tommy: Oliver needed an orgasm. Or twelve.

But what if he didn't want random - _though_ _steaming hot_ \- girl, number 234?

 _What if he wanted Laurel?_

This was where part of the doubt trickled in.

As much as 'Ollie the return' was the same, he was also… different. Still a charming player - _like me_ \- but stronger somehow. Mellower. More… brooding? _Islands will do that to you_. But girls like brooding. And what if that was also something Laurel Lance liked now? In the past Laurel had been a movie and pizza kind of gal, a 'long walks after which you spend your hours holding hands and necking as you talk and talk and talk before sex' kind of girlfriend. Someone who liked the occasional glass of red or white or Chardonnay because it made her feel mature, and wining and dining meal at _the_ most popular restaurant in the city. She'd also liked cute guys giving her cute things and being, all in all, cute themselves.

What if now, Miss Lance - _Miss 'Just this once, it'll never happen again Thomas Merlyn' Lance_ – _preferred_ hot and brooding? Like the newly returned from the dead, suddenly much larger in person than Tommy remembered, Oliver Queen. _Though he'd always been a handsome bastard, second only to me of course, which always made sense given that we were and are the two richest, most eligible bachelors in Starling City, hell yes; we fit the cover of Time magazine quite nicely_. With his new, suave haircut - his pre-island surfer, lazy rich guy look had held an appeal with _a lot_ of girls in their Alma Mata's; all four of them – and suddenly extremely deep blue eyed gaze, _I 've never seen Ollie last so long without blinking before_ , Oliver was more the heir apparent than ever.

It was a kind of magnetism that Thomas Merlyn didn't possess. And maybe it was something Laurel could like now.

Or, at least he would think that if he didn't know just how much – _or how little_ – Laurel now thought of Oliver. _Her anger is very much part of who she's become_. That was another hurdle. Anger, not necessarily in Tommy's experience but from certain 'things' he'd read, could be counted as a form of passion. What if her issues with his best friend caused a spark, one that could re-ignite the flames that had once been there – _I've read waaaaaay too much romance novel bullshit lately_ – and voila! 'Lauriver' are once again the item to be. Or beat.

Tommy closed his eyes against the possibility.

His _second_ instinct, _last night_ , had actually been to go to her. To Laurel.

Once the bar crawl and pull became a surprising bust - he hadn't felt so 'uninspired' in the pant department in… _ever_ \- he'd almost made it to her apartment before he remembered that… they weren't together. 'Friends with the occasional benefits' yes, but, together? Sadly, no.

It wasn't for lack of trying.

" _Remember…" She whispered against his mouth, her front against his and the side of the table they'd been sitting at now against their thighs as her hands pulled his shirt down over his arms. "This can't-"_

 _He pressed a hard kiss against her words. "Can't happen again. I know."_

 _Her eyes stared directly into his and he liked what he saw there. Beauty. Confidence. Passion. Promise. Moving in, he travelled slow, sweet kisses over her cheeks and down her throat his thumbs stroked over her nipples, hard under her bra, as the palms of her hands talked sex and all the things that clouded the mind, taking him away from the crappy life he lived, as they snaked down his back, to his pants…_

 _Her hands raced his to his belt buckle, licking his lower lip as she did so before concentrating on freeing him completely. Then his eyes closed as she began to work him, a hand down his boxers, instinct taking over as he started undoing the clip of her trousers._

 _He just… he needed her. Right now._

 _And she whimpered, "Never again," in an incredibly sexy – I'll never forget it, it'll haunt my dreams kind of sexy – tone that he'd never heard from her before – though Ollie probably had – when Tommy cupped her crotch over her panties._

It had been fast. Too fast; he'd almost blown his load but luckily she'd been as on edge as he so he hadn't appeared quite so much like a 15 year old virgin. And, thankfully, the first time wasn't the last. Far from it. And she'd instigated it.

" _I want to lose myself too." She'd softly murmured, holding his face between her palms as she leaned in to kiss him._

Yet knowing this was actually what stopped him from knocking on her door. It had been a year since their last screw – _her words not mine_ – their escapades having halted when she landed a job at CNRI and he knew it would take _more_ ; so much more than him looking at her with eyes that screamed 'I'm yours', than an offer of a few hours of blissful release. They'd both moved past simply needing each other in the moment. Or rather, _he_ had. He didn't know where Laurel stood. And it made him see that he wanted so much more too.

He wanted _her_. Just her. All the time. A relationship. Because he didn't just see Laurel as a means to an amazing orgasm: he saw the future. His future. In her, with her, around her.

The third problem?

It was a betrayal. Bro's before hoes.

She was his best friend's girl. _I mean, sure, Ollie screwed her sister and there's no apology that can make up for that,_ but… she wasn't his only transgression.

He found it hard to believe that laurel hadn't known, at least in some small way, about Oliver's wanderlust. Everybody else on the planet knew about it. Tommy himself had been born with an eye for girls with talented tongues and wrists and he'd all but pushed Ollie towards them too – _with me in tow, wrapped in a shiny red bow_ – all the while  knowing that Ollie was with Laurel; Tommy's only female friend at the time. _Hah; my only female friend ever._

In the past he and she hadn't been all that close. Thing's changed, he supposed.

At dinner the previous night - he'd kept in touch with Moira and Thea - it'd been like riding a bike, only… _Ollie didn't once mention Laurel._ He'd been waiting for it too. _Then again I didn't bring her up either. And Ollie didn't really talk about anything._ It had all been Tommy.

He didn't know what to do.

Well, he _did_ know. He just didn't want to.

First, he had to tell Ollie that he'd cheated. Second… he had to step aside. If Ollie wanted to see if the spark was still present and if Laurel agreed then Tommy would have to let them, watching from a distance. Like he'd always done.

Unbeknownst to Tommy, the smallest snake of regret wormed its way inside him and he wouldn't see it until it was too late to take back what he'll eventually say… or what he'll eventually do.

 _Good things would come and soon,_ Tommy thought as he sat up, reaching for his mobile. _They always did when Ollie was around._

Tommy Merlyn was a fool.

* * *

 **Queen Mansion, 08:10, Lounge**

"Death-in-absentia usually occurs automatically after seven years. However in cases of imminent peril – a boat accident in the China sea, for example – the court will grant a petitioner's request to grant the missing person deceased sooner."

Moira Queen's highly capable – and highly well paid – lawyer couldn't have addressed a less absorbed individual. Wanting Oliver to regain the Queen entitlement and all that came with it was a step, Moira had perceived, most relevant to her son's re-integration to the social world the Queen's inhabited. But the subliminal message was heard loud and clear: Oliver was to regain - though he'd never before possessed a position within his family's company – a place of leadership at Queen Consolidated.

The Lawyer – a middle aged man in a crisp blue suit - took a moment to side-eye said heir and frowned at the sheer lack of attention Mr Oliver Queen was giving him. The 27 year old was playing with…a phone? Sat on one of the sofa's he was utterly absorbed with the touch screen motions as if they fascinated him. "We'll… delve into the quagmire of ownership position in light of your disappearance when the court hearing has passed."

To say the tension took a turn for awkward – for anyone other than Oliver - was an understatement.

Yes: the Board of Directors for the company had voted – unanimously – on declaring both Robert Queen and his son deceased just one year after the sinking of the Queen's Gambit. Moira and Walter had both been members of that board. They'd both signed the agreement.

Passing an uneasy glance to his amazingly unruffled wife - though he knew Moira well enough to know that she worked best by hiding all her misgivings behind a mask of cool composure, at times even from him – Walter took a step towards his stepson. _Stepson_. A word he never thought he'd have to bring up in civil conversation. _Never say never_. "Oliver, I hope you understand: in light of you and your father's… _absence,_ it was necessary to bring control of the company under the board of directors."

Oliver gave them no response.

 _This wasn't a good idea._

It wasn't to Walter. Standing still in the lounge, he watched as Oliver – dressed simply in jeans and a long sleeved shirt as Thomas Merlyn was coming to escort him into the city - concentrated, staring down at the black mobile in his grasp. Brow crinkling together, then quirking when the application he pushed a thumb against lit up the screen like a Christmas tree, Oliver titled his head and Walter figured he'd heard every word.

He just hadn't considered it important enough to react to. And Walter honestly couldn't blame him. _Why couldn't this have waited a few more days? At least until he'd fallen back into the world again._ How Oliver was treating the phone was an indication of this point. When Oliver and Robert had set sail on the Queen's Gambit, touchscreen mobiles were brand new vehicles that he probably hadn't considered worthy of attention, just as Smartphones, Androids and IPhone's hadn't exactly been in circulation.

Originally Walter had been… worried was one word to use. Hesitant was another.

Oliver's behaviour on stepping into the Mansion had been expected but still, Walter had hoped for more. He'd, _just him_ , had predicted less of Oliver's behaviour than his mother based simply on the grounds had been so long removed from society. And yet he'd also wanted to see a bit more from him too. In truth he hadn't known really what would happen. None of them had. How was one supposed to act around a man just returned from being shipwrecked? Oliver's remarks at dinner had increased the concern he'd felt growing within him: not that he would be against Oliver taking a position in the company – in fact in many ways the idea was a pleasant one, promoting familial cohesion - but… with his reputation, or rather what it had once been, Walter had been sure that with a click of his fingers Oliver could run the company down to the ground in matter of months. Or worse, especially in his condition, change its morality.

But then Felicity Smoak had given him pause.

" _Sir, there isn't exactly a precedent for this. He's spent five years alone and away from everything…Just from the elapsed time by itself I'd have to wonder if anybody would be or act the same way as they once did."_

It wasn't fair to judge a man, regardless of family or entitlement or even by where they'd spent the last five years of their time. If a relative stranger could appreciate the complexities of Oliver Queen without any personal involvement, surely Walter could give him as much latitude and time as needed for him to… adapt. _Expectations aren't really going to help with him,_ she'd said.

 _No, they wouldn't_ , he agreed.

Unfortunately Moira and Thea had built their image of Oliver based purely on their expectations of what he should be like now. It was a road that could lead to heartbreak. And he wasn't sure he could stop its progress.

"Congratulations: you're alive."

Coming out of his revere Walter blinked to find that Moira had finally managed to draw Oliver's attention away from the phone – he'd placed it next to his knee – to sign the document cementing his return to the Queen family lifestyle. "You'll still have to attend the court hearing next week to make things official but this document allows you access, once again, to your personal trust fund, stock holdings etcetera." The lawyer said, immediately packing up his briefcase, standing and shaking Walter's and Moira's hands.

The satisfied expression on Moira's face told Walter everything: she was already working on bringing Oliver into the fold. What Mrs Moira Queen-Steele wanted, she got.

Yet the feeling in his stomach – and the way Oliver had managed to swiftly leave the room on the heels of the lawyer - told him she wouldn't get what she wanted this time.

* * *

 **09:47am, Outside Tommy's car; two streets away from CNRI**

 _Swiping a potato cube – Tommy didn't notice that the plate was Oliver's or that his friend hadn't touched a crumb of it – he popped it in his mouth as he strode by, eyes closing momentarily at the taste. "God, I missed having breakfast here. Raisa's cooking's is as phenomenal as ever."_

" _You stopped?" Oliver asked with a frown on his otherwise passive face as he shrugged on his new leather jacket; early delivery saved lives in the Queen mansion._

" _Oh I still come over… but it was usually a lot later. And not as often as I probably should have." He added with a wince. The first couple of years after losing Oliver, losing Robert Queen; the father figure filling in for Tommy's sad excuse of a dad, Tommy rarely stepped foot inside the Queen abode. The first time, he remembered, had been during a tequila induced haze about 8 months after the accident._

 _Oliver looked at him._

 _It was the eeriest thing about 'new Ollie' for Tommy: the silence._

" _So!" Clapping his hands together, Tommy grinned - no chick flick moments here – quickly brushing aside the subject. "First day back; where does Oliver Queen want to go first?"_

 _A stare was his answer. "I… I don't really…"_

" _Not a problem. I shall compensate. By the day's end Ollie, you'll remember exactly what you missed about Starling." He fished with an eyebrow wiggle._

 _Shaking his head Oliver smiled. It was a beaming thing, a little wider than Tommy remembered but, whatever. "There is one thing I missed." He mentioned as they both stepped beyond the mansion doors._

 _Grinning back, Tommy twisted, walking backwards, watching Ollie's smirk – like the dude was about to compete with him in a round of 'which girl will do what first'. "Let me guess: meaningless sex? Drinks at The Station? Steaks at the Palm-"_

" _Laurel."_

Of course.

It had been a bad idea from the start. _Such_ _a bad idea._ With him and Ollie walking away from the scene of the crime, he supposed it didn't matter now. Laurel hadn't given the poor guy an inch.

They didn't speak until they were out of sight of CNRI – two streets away. _Closest parking space to the Legal Aid office, Jesus._ It screamed 'low income area'."So we got _that_ out of the way. Good call," _major fuck up_ , "now we're ready to make up for some lost time."

Oliver didn't say a word. Again. His face was a blank canvass. A nugget of worry wormed its way into Tommy's gut every time he saw the lack of expression. Ollie had never been the stoic, expressionless type, not before. But he supposed he had a lot to think about.

They'd been. They'd seen. They'd conquered. Right?

Wrong.

 _Oliver had wanted to see her. And it had gone so smoothly_. _Hah, right_.

It had been… 'Awkward' was one word to use, but 'brutal' was the operative one. Laurel hadn't held back. Now his best friend had taken a turn for subdued. In actuality Tommy hadn't thought it would go well anyway; most of him had hoped he'd been wrong and a small part of him – a part he refused to acknowledge even now - was thankful he was right.

Just minutes before seeing her it'd been normal: wonderfully normal, being best buds once again. They'd joked. Oliver had asked Tommy if he'd gotten lucky at his _own_ funeral. _There's my best friend; priorities on the prize._ They'd even talked about the party. Sort of. He'd be taking care of everything after all; it would be like old times.

Now he was just trying to make Ollie feel better. He deserved to feel better.

"Come on Ollie; lets-"

But then everything went to hell and Tommy barely witnessed it.

He processed the few seconds of chaos in flashes, as one does when the shock kicks in; when you're being attacked on home ground and you aren't desensitised to it. First the black van speeding towards them, trapping them in the alleyway they'd parked in. Then a sharp pain in his neck and falling was all Tommy could concentrate on and all he could see or remember as a black hood was thrown over his eyes.

…So he missed Oliver's reaction.

He missed _his_ way of dealing with being assaulted on 'home ground'. That being, without a reaction. Missed how he remained perfectly calm and motionless.

Missed the look on his face as the men with grotesque masks poured out of the van, shooting a passing bystander dead in his tracks. Didn't see 'Ollie'.

Didn't see _him_. Not at all.

He was nowhere to be found.

Never.

* * *

 **CNRI, Legal Aid Office**

Sitting at her desk, staring unseeingly at a monitor, Laurel felt better and worse all at once.

" _Hello Laurel."_

He'd come to see her. Voluntarily. And she'd spoken to him, to Oliver Queen. To Ollie.

' _She was my sister!'_ She'd told him. ' _I couldn't be angry at her because she was dead. I couldn't grieve because I was so angry: that's what happens when your sister dies whilst screwing your boyfriend.'_

So silent, he'd simply looked at her. And it hadn't helped; he was even more handsome than she remembered – pretty and toned - and she'd hated herself, and him, for noticing. For having to look away more than once as she spoke. _'We buried an empty coffin… because her body was at the bottom of the ocean where_ _ **you**_ _left her. It should have been you.'_

It had felt amazing getting that out. Finally. The venting, the _it should have been you,_ reaching his ears for the first time since the previous hundred times she'd thought it in the past few hours. Letting him know. Pushing that on him and revelling in it as he flinched.

' _I know it's too late to say it but I'm sorry.'_

He was _sorry_. Oh, was he now? Well sorry. Didn't. Cut. It.

' _So am I. I wish you'd rot in hell a whole lot longer than five years.'_

 _It's all your fault._

It had felt so good.

And so… not good.

It hadn't been until she got back inside of CNRI that she realised she'd been waiting for two things; two things she hadn't received. The first was for her to feel some sort of closure in letting him know how much he'd hurt her by doing what he did, by taking Sara, by leaving on the Queen's Gambit for a secret rendezvous with her, by dying… then by not dying when Sara had. For bringing everything she knew she hadn't shut a door on, but had pretended she had, back to the surface.

 _How dare he just stand there like that?_

…Because the second thing she'd been waiting for was… for _more_. More from him. More than an apology.

Laurel realised - and she wasn't proud of it – that she'd been waiting for him to mend her. When she didn't even know she needed mending – _I don't_ – and would never admit to it. And even though she didn't want it or need it, need _him_ ; even though she'd told herself 'never again', she'd wanted him to… _want_ her… again. To want to be with her. And to show her that he did. To beg for a second chance, to ask her to let him make it right.

And she'd say no, right? _Of course I would_. And it would have felt even better than telling him that it should have been him and not Sara who'd died. But he hadn't. And it had made her speak a little of what she'd been carrying all this time.

 _Let_ _ **him**_ _carry that weight_. _He doesn't understand; he didn't know what it was like to be betrayed. To be left behind. To want more and never get it._

Tunnel vision was an epidemic in the Lance family.

… _And_ in the Queen family. Both on the same side of a coin that was already tipping.

* * *

 **11:00am, Old Warehouse District**

 _Like liquid fire…_

The promise of the crude electric discharge tasers induce had swarmed his system, bringing to life the tempered steel of a body moulded to break norms. The feeling had oozed like syrup through his veins. It was familiar. It was five years of the 'the same'.

 _Finally_ , he felt like himself. 24 hours back in Starling and it had felt like 24 days.

He stood very still for a moment; taking a deep breath and feeling his lungs expand and contract.

He'd been fast but he could be faster. He _would_ be faster. The mask had been removed. Having Tommy unconscious made things much easier. They'd tried to question him, those men; the _boys_ in the masks. There had been three.

Then two.

Then one.

Then silence.

The taser he'd taken from the talker of the group had meant little after they'd used it on him. It had simply… angered the wolf.

' _Mr Queen! Did your father survive the accident? Did he tell you anything?'_

 **A link.**

A living breathing link. To a list that should never have been created. Too bad he'd had to cut them down.

Then again, chances were that the street punk was just a pawn in a long line of them. Young men desperate for cash or needing that one-shot chance in being to be accepted into the ranks of a local gang.

But it gave Oliver room to vent and let himself be himself for a few precious seconds. No matter how sickening that thought was. He knew it would be difficult, returning. Knowing that each member of his family would want him to be near them, that Tommy would want to do their usual routine.

Seeing Laurel again… and her words, everything she had the right to say, everything he'd expected her to say and yet also _hadn't_ expected… words he deserved but wished he'd never _had_ to hear. He'd thought that… maybe enough time had gone by that Laurel would simply see him with indifference. It would be preferable… Maybe. That she would have moved forwards. He'd hoped for it. But she hadn't. She was just as much stuck in the past as he was changed by it… And it made things difficult for him, clouding his thoughts, something he presently didn't want or need. For now, he could only let them go.

And it surprised him how easy that was.

So after breaking his own thumb to escape the zip cuffs, the so-called 'torturer' – a kid probably bought by powerful people who cared little for street punks - died first. Using the legs of the chair Oliver had been sitting on as truncheons, he killed the kid with the pistol second.

And a Gailil 5.56, in the hands of a coward – because it's always either the strongest member or the coward who carries the biggest gun – was little more than a toy; a toy that could kill, but still a toy. It simply meant he'd have to let the man… run out of bullets.

He did. Didn't even aim. Then he died too.

Killing people, whether at random or discriminatory, wasn't new territory for Oliver Queen but killing people in Starling City? It made him edgy. Wary. There was a monster on the loose; and he was a new and different animal to the one the citizens of this city had been used to.

' _The rich folks of Starling tend to ignore the general degeneration of an integral part of their city… Pretty sure some of them play a hand in making it worse.'_

It was a bitter pill to swallow… but an accurate one.

And the choke; the undeniable rattle of life leaving a body was still fresh - the sound of gunfire pounding through the warehouse still present, the violence of the attack and the fluidity of his response. It echoed through him as he walked away, singing in his blood, this… purpose of his. This talent he'd cultivated, the knowledge both necessary and desperately guilt ridden sang in his veins and the need to _begin_ once again played him like a fiddle.

Walking, as if he'd simply been taking a stroll rather than hunting a criminal, Oliver moved closer to where Tommy lay, were he was coming back to awareness, and he worked to change the expression on his face to something markedly more… upset? Distressed? Is that what people become when they're kidnapped? He didn't know anymore. He'd long forgotten. It was difficult to mask himself again.

But it didn't really matter. He just had to get through it.

He had an appointment to make after the inevitable police questioning - a sad fragment of returning home that he was now, after months, ready for – in the Little Odessa section of Starling. A Russian Bodega (the Russian Black Market) where he would exchange the considerable selection of diamonds he'd discovered years ago was in his inheritance for cash. Lots of it. Which he would use to secretly buy the Queen Industrial Shipping Factory.

…The name of the realtor would be a little more difficult to acquire.

* * *

 **Queen Consolidated, 12:30pm**

The day just hadn't stopped giving and it had only just passed noon.

"This is ridiculous," she muttered to herself – as she often did - walking a fast pace down the main corridor – her hands expressing her agitation - of the 21st floor, "the whole thing: all of it. Everything. From Mr 'ABS-GALORE' Queen, to Miss 'Ambitious' Lance to…" Her eyes looked to the heavens. " _This_."

Let's backtrack: 3, 2, 1…

Her morning run, though late - influenced by outside forces; whirlwinds with names beginning O and ending in R - had lasted for over an hour. It _had_ to. And though early in the morning, the events of said dawn had been more than enough to occupy the entirety of her mind during said run. And her mind could definitely be categorised as a vast expanse of thoughts and intentions - divided against itself at times - so it was a little shocking that one man, a stranger, could in fact preoccupy her so intensely.

Yes, it _was_ ridiculous but… Everything felt different now.

 _Commence major eye roll._

Of course Felicity would never - could never, _nu-uh_ \- be one of  those women: the type who, once they've met a man, fall all over themselves - _not that I've ever needed help in making a fool out of myself, this morning being a testament to that_ \- and fail to ever fully pick themselves back up.

 _Not. Happening._

But Oliver Queen was a mystery. Felicity hated mysteries - _I know; the irony should knock me over_. And mysteries needed to be solved. By the _right_ people. The right _person_. Regardless of the outcome. _I'm falling back into old, very dangerous habits here_ … She couldn't help it: it had been a while since something had been interesting enough for her to look outside of her own life. Not that she didn't care about others. It was just that her… _extracurricular_ _activities_ left little room – _left ZERO room_ – for her to engage elsewhere. Socially or otherwise. Just for herself.

She'd always been fine with that. _But I never expected…_

The day bore so many fruits: some withered others poisonous, few ripe and resplendent.

First fruit in the basket?

Some of the fires in the Glades had been a deliberate sabotage _. I mean, of course. I was expecting it but… I wish that I'd been wrong._

Those houses ran through close to the South side of Tudor's way, a place normally free of the usual criminal activity - though still very much in the Glades - Felicity had become disposed of hearing about in relation to these cases.

During her run Felicity had pursued a course which conveniently led straight through the corner of Seventh and Low, right across from where at least three of the fires had sprang… it was an open area in the Glades. Sneaking into the houses was a breeze: the streets were virtually empty at this time. The houses no longer occupied, _obviously_. After investigating it was clear: the damage to some was more extensive than others, there was multiple points of origin and the pattern of the fire spread was unpredictable. The fire alarms installed by Holder Corporation had been faulty, but faulty fire alarms didn't start fires. Not by themselves. They just… didn't warn you of them.

And other than shoddy engineering there was practically no other reason that could explain _random_ – uh huh - fires acting so _discriminatorily._ So either a) arson was involved, b) unlawful profiteering or c) something much worse.

She had only some clue as to which: a _select_ group of the initial fires were all instigated quite simply with a long, thin piece of rope attached to ignition fuel. In the houses targeted there were no survivors. All these houses had been fairly close to each other.

The second piece of fruit in her basket this morning?

Just after 10:00am Ned Stole, her condescending, ass-hat of a supervisor, had been fired. More accurately a double act of armed security men came in to _escort_ him downstairs to where the police had been waiting for him. Apparently, embezzling was a talent he'd been honing long before his final debut at QC. He'd passed her on his way out as she walked calmly, collectively by his office and the _look_ he'd thrown her… a challenge. An arched browed was all she'd offered before forgetting all about it.

Time to move on. There was bigger fish to fry.

Though happy to be rid of the incompetent misogynist there were people in the world – _people_ _in this city_ – who do far worse and yet receive little, if any, punishment. _There are things that I do, things I have to do, that go without chastisement._ She had two occupations; both with purpose, one more so than the other. And QC's current work agenda, for IT technicians, was one bordering on utter ennui; a job she could, has done and would forever run circles around.

Yet now, after the morning's findings, Felicity could concentrate on penalising John Holder, CEO of Holder Incorporated. Anonymously of course. She wouldn't even have to use her other face. A slip of documents, an online anonymous file, the cop to send it to and presto; prison.

For five seconds life was… well, _competent_. Until fruit in the basket, number _3_ arrived.

Did you know that to be a prosecutor, in any town or city or country is to be considered the chief legal representative of the law of that particular place at that given moment in time? Felicity hadn't, at least not in so many words.

It is required of all law courts to hire a competent, _official_ member of the judicial system's squadron of defence attorneys for any case involving corporate crime. Preferably an individual who has, prior to sentencing a man such as Adam Hunt, prosecuted against high ranking, hardened members of the criminal underworld without bowing to bribes, threats or coercions of any kind.

Just past 11:00am, Felicity had been rendered mute after discovering, with a painfully simple online search – because disturbingly, it would be across every news channel this time tomorrow - that Miss Laurel Lance, a Legal Aid Attorney at CNRI (City Necessary Resources Initiative) would be taking the case as prosecutor against Adam Hunt and - so much worse - his pet viper of a Lawyer, Rob Stellart.

Mouth open, she'd just sat there as the notification blared in bold across her monitor from a secure newsletter forum. _No._ Teresa Tanning had been scrambling on all cylinders about Ned's sack before subsequently rambling on - the woman bounced back with a precision so acute it was almost an art form - about this week's lunch rota before walking off in what looked like ten inch heels, completely missing how Felicity hadn't taken in a single word.

Laurel Lance.

 _As in… the ex-girlfriend of one returnee from the dead, Mr Oliver Queen?_

Disbelieving - _because the current Lieutenant of Starling City's Police department, Dave Ellet, couldn't be that stupid_ \- she clicked on the photo link posted next to the report… and closed her eyes briefly when her worst fears were confirmed.

* * *

 **Adam Hunt: Federal Indictment by Laurel lance for Prosecutor**

Front. Page. News.

 _Zero sense of self-preservation._

It blared – if a sound could be associated with it, bomb sirens would come to mind – live on CNN, overhead of what would have been a quaint picture of the woman if it weren't so obvious she'd been asked to stand before CNRI's headquarters situated perfectly behind her – as if she represented the building - as she lived out the hand-on-hips-pose with classic authority. She pulled it off with faultless precision.

The picture was recent too, _as is the new coat of paint. Who's the new funder?_ A quick search confirmed it. _For the love of- a retirement home?_ That wouldn't last long. Even with their brief flush of the green stuff from Wayne Enterprises. _This is ballsy, even for them._

It answered a few raised questions Felicity's mind had been crammed with: if a legal aid (an assistance centre for individuals who can't afford to hire private solicitors) is granted special funding it may lead them to reach for higher ground. For business growth and professional status. The more respect granted to them, the more publicity they'd garner… the more funding would continue to rise and roll in their favour.

It would explain why one of their **youngest** , _least_ experienced attorney's had taken such a  massively publicised case.

With _**zero**_ prior wins in Starling's Royal Court.

What followed Miss Lance's picture was an explicit bio of all her achievements to date – there weren't many that stood out in the legal world being that she'd only ever worked for small time offices – where she lived, _might as well post blueprints of her apartment building,_ who she worked for, and the entirety of her resume… _A bull's-eye if there ever was one. A very clear target. And not a very smart move for the officer in charge of the investigation._

"I passed it to Hilton," the first time she'd ever done so personally – and now the last, "he passes it the Police Chief who hands it over to a charity initiative; what are they playing at?" She whispered to no one, shaking her head.

She hadn't exactly been impressed that they'd handed it to CNRI in the first place but they'd recently taken to doing just that. A major threat to the underdogs, those who haven't the means to fight for themselves in the court of law and it was sent straight to their sympathisers: CNRI. So, no. She hadn't been pleased; but she'd understood.

However she'd have thought that they'd have had the mind to pass it to a lawyer of some standing and Felicity knew that several members of CNRI had an extensive history in the Supreme Court of Justice, one or two having presided over cases in Washington…

Having office space situated away from the majority of her colleagues allowed for a healthy amount of privacy, which meant Felicity could move the cursor on screen over to her self-styled programme and slip quietly behind – _not quite 'Enemy Lines', not a fan of Owen Wilson and not necessarily an enemy of law enforcement… at least not lately –_ the worryingly weak security wall for case files in the SCPD and took a look.

 _Adam Hunt, Adam…Hunt. Got it! So, the officer in charge would be… yep; Hilton, handed it off to Dave Ellet himself- wait, what is that?_

She'd skimmed over a page of police jargon before hitting a sentence that made her blink hard.

"… _ **As an offer of friendship between inter-relating parties and a symbol of our combined efforts to restore peace, I have granted Detective Quentin Lance request to have his daughter, an attorney with one of our sister agencies, CNRI, placed as lead prosecutor in the case for Adam Hunt. He has assured me that her skill and experience will lead to a clear win for us all."**_

This… was a joke, right? There were too many threads to pluck in that statement.

Because… nepotism?

 _They wouldn't._ It was ridiculous.

Regardless of Laurel Lance's acclaimed efficacy, you did NOT place such an inexperienced attorney in charge of a case of this magnitude. She wasn't even a full Defence Attorney; the woman had spent one year, _one_ , with CNRI and before that, a measly six months as a voluntary incident worker at some dilapidated solicitor's office (so she'd done a brief background check, so what) that centred on taking cases involving abused men and women. It didn't matter how much gumption or ambition she possessed; it would only see her at the bottom of the river rather than in the win.

 _I won't even get started on the fact that a policeman, one of the few with actual morality, has voluntarily placed his daughter in the crosshairs of a businessman with enough money and contacts to clear Miss Lance off the board and get away with it._

…Unless Quentin Lance didn't have a clue about these connections.

Regardless, it meant more work. _For me._ Letting out a breath, Felicity had leaned back in her chair… frustrated. _I offer an olive branch and they do this. Just when I was starting to like Hilton._

The main problem now – because there was a surplus suddenly - was the Lawyer in Defence of Hunt: Mr Stellart. Normally, for her, such a man was easily reckoned with but said snake was well known for chewing up evidence and making the legal team involved look like incompetent idiots. Laurel Lance, a graduate with a solitary year under her belt at a charity law firm couldn't hold against more than a decade of upper class DA work for high acumen business socialites and white collar dignitaries plus two more years as Hunt's personal go-to guy; she'd be eaten alive.

With a spork.

But the cherry on top, the last fruit in the basket to top off such a phenomenal morning came at about 12:30pm, during her usual coffee binge.

It had been impossible, absolutely impossible to avoid the multitude, the throngs, the _gatherings_ of employees huddled around every available television in then building, watching the news alert from WEBG 7. If she hadn't been so intent on finding a decent cup of the brown stuff, Felicity wouldn't have initially missed the reason why.

With the coffee machine still malfunctioning on the 21st floor she'd made a visit to the 23rd; her precious Robin Hood mug secured in-between her palms, the toes of her pump covered feet tapping in happy anticipation of the delicious wafts of caffeine flowing towards her – a taste of a well-deserved break just moments away since she knew the night would be a long one – when she remembered that each the kitchen TV was currently a prime target for every employee from the first floor to the top floor.

The HD TV being _right there_ , just to her left, with 6 women and 5 men perched precariously on their seats before it, she heard every word in clear and crystal fashion and re-discovered why today would be different from yesterday, different from the day before and the day before that. She'd just made way to escape the unusually packed kitchen with her prize the news presenter spoke words that made her almost spill her drink.

"Though Oliver Queen may have only returned to Starling the night before yesterday, this morning a kidnap attempt was made on his life by a group of men wearing masks and carrying automatic weapons. An otherwise harmless outing with a close family friend, Thomas Merlyn - son of Malcolm Merlyn of Merlyn Global Group - turned into a terrifying fight for life."

Eyes widening, mouth open, _I was only with him this morning_ \- completely ignoring the odd looks thrown at her as she stood in rooted in the open doorway – she blinked hard before doubling back, head jerking to see past Lorraine Wild; another IT tech in her department and focus on the reporter on camera.

"Both have been found, unharmed, in the old Warehouse District west of the Glades." the tight knot winding alarmingly fast in her gut loosened - _barely_ \- at the sight of police men hustling and bustling behind Nick, _sure when they're on camera they're all work, work, work,_ butin reality they're been nothing but a barrier, even to themselves. "According to sources," _sources? Is that another word for 'nosy passer-by's' or do you have another mole in your department Hilton?_ "Their abductors were seemingly thwarted by the presence of a masked man, identity unknown."

 _Er… excuse me?_

Her breath caught, because _what?_ Reality trespassing she slowly straightened, frowning as she took in the captivated stares and murmurs of her colleges.

"Is this another sighting of the Watchman?" No. No it wasn't."Though many would question the presence of said guardian, his past excursions have never followed a specific pattern. But it begs the question of why such a person would be watching over the two richest men this side of Gotham."The question could _– and now definitely would be because they can't help themselves –_ be asked until they're sick of inquiring _._ "More to come with the news at one."

For a moment too long she stood there.

 _There's another… vigilante?_

 _A man in a Hood._

 _There couldn't be. I mean… Why? Why_ _now_ _?_

… _Maybe it's a one off. A hoax. Or a good Samaritan, one-time-only thing._

Now here she was, muttering to herself as she pattered down the corridor to her office, fully determined to not get involved with… _any of it_.

 _Maybe Oliver's just a hotspot: I kidnapped him – sort of; if kidnapping meant being forced to do the actual taking_ _by_ _the victim, it gets lost somewhere in translation – then someone else takes him, this time at gunpoint…_ didn't these things come in three's?

It took maybe ten minutes as she sat at her desk trying to work (and failing in trying to do work) for her to touch her mobile. Ten minutes was a lifetime when your eyes wouldn't leave said object, especially if the time – Zulu hour – flashed at every 2 second interval. And she'd deliberately placed her mobile directly north of her waiting fingers.

But it wasn't as if she expected Oliver Queen to call. _He wouldn't. Shouldn't; we barely know each other._

Still…

She was… worried. About him. About Oliver. Even if he was completely fine.

 _Great._ She slumped, recognising that her brain wouldn't allow her to use its natural powers of cognition until she'd come to an outcome. _I am the walking cliché._

And promptly pulled the offending thing before her to quickly type: _are you okay? Saw it on the news._

Ideally – since her brain ran from 0 to 60 in a second – if they were closer she'd have added a whole bunch of stuff like _'are you hurt? Do you need ice cream? Mint Choc-Chip? Can I do anything? The news reporter said you were okay, but, are you?_

 _Were you really saved by a man in a hood?_

 _And what did this person do to your kidnappers?_

Questions. Too many questions. And no answers.

Her fingertips drummed idly, yet consistently against her desk top.

 _Vigilante._

It wasn't a term she took lightly. Judging by the multitudes of individuals, both online and on the news, who'd outright refused to allocate any other moniker other than Watchman… and the odd other name she just wouldn't to acknowledge ( _Nightmare, Starling Terror, ugh_ ; _there's a list_ )… the residents of Starling didn't either.

Theoretically, anybody could be a vigilante. But in a very real sense it was near to impossible for most to achieve. There were definite prerequisites, essential criteria needed for the apparition and evolution of such an individual. And of course, the ever-telling question: be they paladin or reprobate malefactor?

Or be they neutrality?

Be they… Watchman.

So into her musing she almost missed the tell-tale beep of her phone and scrambled towards it, steeling a glimpse at the clock as she did so: it had been almost an hour since she'd sent it, _whoa_. Blue painted nails brushed across the screen-

' _I'm fine'_

Succinct. She breathed a sigh of relief, smiling. _To the point._ _And he'd answered_ , which was a hell of a lot more than she'd actually expected of-

 _-'Thank you'_

A soft blink later and she was texting back.

' _Absolutely no need to thank me. Nothing quite says 'welcome back' like a kidnapping, right?'_

Rolling her eyes – _wow Felicity, blunt instrument to the end_ – she shook herself; _I could have done so much worse,_ and added on: _'do you need anything?'_

A minute climbed by. Then two.

She completed a system diagnostic…

Five minutes crawled to ten. Fifteen.

She answered three phone calls, instructed seemingly feckless workers in the QC building – one worrying example was another IT tech - and managed _not_ to bite all her nails to tiny-

 _-'Yes'_

She jumped to attention which she wouldn't have done for anybody other than Walter Steele.

' _Name it'_

Again she waited. _He probably isn't used to the-_

' _I need the name of a realtor, on the low-key'_

Her grin was ridiculous. It was nice to have her instincts paid off. _'For the Queen Industrial Shipping Factory? Already have it for you: Steve Mallory, off 5_ _th_ _and Avenue, 12 Prescott Street – his office is based there'_

She didn't know why he wanted it: just that he needed help. And she wanted to help him.

' _That was fast'_

' _I am fast; very fast'_

Satisfied, she placed the phone beside her again resumed her work. Until - _NO_ \- because her mind went _right there_ and her brain has an extensive history of working against, her she backtracked, eyes suddenly huge, freaking the heck out-

' _Not that I'm always that fast: I can be slow. And methodical: I mentioned that right?'_

Nodding to herself – _because, yes; that sentence made absolute sense_ – she let out a breath and made once again to place the phone down when, _again_ , her brain explained exactly why this might have been the weirdest option for her to have chosen as an explanation to 'Oliver Queen'.

' _But I already had the information ready and waiting. Not that I'm ready and waiting for you – just my information. That is all'_

She'd ruined it.

' _I'm going to go away now'_

-Because he definitely _hadn't_ replied - _like I'd given him the chance_ -

Mortified, _ugh_ , her face utterly representing how horrified she was at herself she - didn't switch off her phone because she was absolutely anal retentive – placed her mobile just beyond her coffee cup: out of reach. Planning to do a full day's work in the space of one afternoon.

 _I do so much better in the dark…_

Nightfall was too many hours away.

* * *

 **SCPD, 9.50pm…**

In recent weeks, months, _years_ , Detective Hilton had grown a subtle kind of… not fear exactly, more an _unease_ with the night. The moment the sun passed the horizon his stomach would begin to tighten, would sometimes churn.

Tonight was no different.

In fact tonight… it was worse. And he didn't know why.

"This is hilarious." The phone by his ear, nestled neatly between his shoulder and cheek would leave definite prints: evidence of the 20 minutes he'd already been on the line. "I'm not impressed by this and you shouldn't be either." He emphasised.

" _Look, this could be a major break for HTPU_ (Human Trafficking Prosecution Unit) _-"_

"It already _is_ a major break for the unit Brian. Carlos Vuentes. In their custody. _After_ he kills one of your guys. And they didn't have to do a single thing to even _attempt_ to press charges on a ghost; they just had to wait for someone _else_ to do the job. They were on him for _7 years_. Don't tell me that after 7 years of failing to grab this guy, when they're finally given the keys to his sick little kingdom, Stanford is ready to broker a deal that'll have him walking in 10 years, just so he can get a _name_?"

It was sickening: Carlos Vuentes. Major freelance human-trafficking scumbag. Had spent the better part of his existence stealing and selling children – he'd started with girls and ended with little boys – and Niles Stanford, head of HTPU, wanted to reduce a sentence that should have ended with a quick and legal execution, to instead, a ten year stretch in Iron Heights.

For a _name_.

" _It's not just any name Lucas-"_

"I don't care if it's the identity of the vigilante himself, who – just so we're clear – is the one who literally handed Vuentes to us, right on our doorstep."

Yeah, because it got better.

Hilton… he couldn't, _wouldn't_ , allow this.

 _It isn't right._

The Watchman… no matter the rumours, no matter his partner's ideals, no matter what he knew the vigilante was _very much_ capable of; thanks to the Watchman not only had he _not_ had to step within fifty feet of some of the most notoriously dangerous men this side of the planet, he'd also managed to claim credit – credit he didn't understand what to do with – with some of the departments most famous and infamous arrests that they'd seen in the past couple of years.

His partner, Quentin lance, who would much rather get right up in the face of the world's most disreputable criminals, had also managed to reap a modicum of fame from the Watchman. And had hated every minute.

 _Why would I want acclaim for a 'job well done' that I didn't have any part in?_ He'd said. _Never mind that it was the result of a vigilante who's past exploits_ completely _cross the line of law abiding, straight into law destroying! A man who shows up at a crime scene before we do: who knows_ _ **more**_ _than we do, which is totally unacceptable! And we let this guy do it, right under our noses! …I need a coffee, you?_

But, however Quentin detested the idea of a vigilante, the one thing he abhorred more was letting a criminal do _less_ than his time – for any reason. It was why Lucas was more than a little happy that the detective had taken an early night for once.

 _Well, that's part of the problem."_

"What do you mean?"

" _Niles was…"_ There was a sigh down the line, as if what he was about to say was something he really didn't want to. _"He was hoping that if we score this name from Vuentes, then we could… let the vigilante take care of the rest."_

It took him a moment to process what he'd just heard. "Tell me you didn't just say what I think you just said."

" _His train of thought was that if the Watchman could garner the kind of evidence he did on Carlos, enough for us to immediately incarcerate him, then he could also gather more of the same so that even after any deal made with this SOB, we could still get him with a hung jury."_

There had been a rare few times in his career that Lucas Hilton had been truly speechless. This was maybe the fourth time.

" _Lucas?"_

"I feel sick."

" _Look man-"_

"No _Brian_." Pulling the phone from between his shoulder and cheek and pressing it to his ear again. "I can't believe I'm hearing this. Are you telling me that we're actually- that this _precinct_ has actually fallen so low that we're willing to lay all the responsibility on the _vigilante_ to do our work for us?" It had taken months for the vigilante to secure Carlos, he _knew_. And  without the help of the men and women's _finest_. A humourless huff escaped him; he didn't feel so _fine_ right now. "Didn't realise we were so inept." Actually… it had been a growing thought for many months now.

Either that or he had to admit full acknowledgement that the force was corrupt.

" _Quentin's really rubbed off on you."_

"Then he has the right idea."

" _That's not what this is Lucas."_

"Then what is it? Please; tell me I'm getting the wrong image here."

" _Our department's so under staffed right now it's amazing we've gotten anything done-"_

For the fourth time that night, Hilton interrupted. "We're all understaffed Brian! Budget cuts, lack of funding, layoffs, upgrades not granted, warrants not warranted- how the hell do you think _we_ cope, man?"

They did. By a thread.

A thimble of spite crept into his colleagues tone. _"I wouldn't know: a third of your cases are solved via vigilante."_

For a dark moment there was silence. And yes: dark. Because he was at the office, way past his daughter's bedtime, with only one desk lamp shining in his eyes and losing patience. That, and there was far more than a simple grain of truth in that statement.

Rewind the clock just one year and he would have vehemently denied and openly hated the truth of it. Now? He wanted to tell this guy to go stick his limitations that keep the job from getting done, up the backside of the boss the man kissed the feet of. Niles Stanford _, I'll never understand why such a tool was promoted._

When the silence had reigned for more than 10 seconds Brian seemed to find his nerve. _"Lucas, man, I'm sorry."_

A sigh. "No, I get it. You're tired. And your unit is spent with its resources. But we can't just start stripping off areas of our work that we hate and allocating it to the Vigilante. For a start we wouldn't even know how to contact him. He just…"

" _Shows up?"_

"And disappears, yeah. Niles mustn't be making this easy for you."

" _Hey, remember when he first showed up? How ridiculous it all was?"_

Did he ever.

It began with rumours, a little over 2 and a half years ago. Of someone hidden in the dark. An individual, who would come out of the night and be a figurative bogeyman for lowlife offenders.

At least… that's how it started.

Thieves, violent offenders, GTA, vandals, and murders: there wasn't a distinction. However; how, when and why this person showed up was still a mystery that no one had managed to pinpoint.

And then the pictures had started… the quotes. Lucky passer-by's who'd managed to capture blurry shots of someone moving too fast for a decent image. Of the few words heard about this person. As circumstantial as it might have appeared it was still definitive proof of an honest to goodness vigilante roaming Starling City. A vigilante nobody could find or clearly verify.

Early 2011, the kidnapping of 2 children had brought this creature out from the shadows and into the daylight in a fantastic debacle involving a shootout in an old parking garage and auto-repair shop. Six cops, including Hilton himself had glimpsed the man in question. Later it had been deduced that the children were meant to be sold: their first solid lead into Carlos Vuentes.

And thanks to The Watchman both children, a girl of 12 and a boy of 11, had been recovered with minor injuries. Both were children of wealthy families.

Evidence indicating familial involvement, leading to the arrest of the girl's uncle and wannabe mafia gang members holed up in the Glades, appeared seemingly out of thin air just hours later: an anonymous dump into the hard drive of the Head of the Technical Analytics Department. A man who still hadn't managed to trace it back to the owner.

That same morning a task force was set up; the sole purpose of which was the find and apprehend the vigilante. A unit he and Quentin had been forced on and off of ever since. And they hadn't managed to come even close to catching this guy.

It was the makings of a legend.

That afternoon the name **The Watchman** leaked online to every news-site from Starling to Central. The newspapers received a standing order from the Mayor who had friends in the senator's office: if any one paper published The Watchman as an official designation they would be sued for self-serving propaganda. But they hadn't had chance to incorporate major media sites on the internet into the subpoena.

And even now, only select members of the SCPD knew fully of the vigilante's existence. Everything else was simply hearsay.

But that didn't stop people from _believing_.

When the same individual suddenly started targeting trafficking rings in the Glades the popularity and sheer respect for this vigilante rose ten-fold.

"I'd say it isn't so ridiculous now Brian."

" _Yeah. Like to meet him one day..."_ He really doesn't think he would. _"Listen man, I'll try to talk to Niles again but I don't know what it'll accomplish."_

"Thanks."

Hanging up, Lucas sighed.

For all the papers, the Starling Times etcetera, had managed to cultivate, on how much they'd managed to flip from week to month on whether there was a 'person of interest' out there in the City – without using the moniker most were blabbing - Lucas knew for a fact that he was real. He'd seen him. Seen a little of his works. Had been awed by The Watchman.

And terrified.

Stretching his back and fingers he stood, working the kinks until the joints popped and cracked-

"That's a bad habit."

In one giant push all air in his body left his lungs, his chest constricting painfully as the light from the solitary lamp on his desk, his computer monitor and tower, the servers in the back, the camera presiding over the room… all turned off at once.

Breath coming out in pants, his brain stalled for understanding as he started to sweat. Already. He's felt frozen in place before, even though there's nothing there to hold him there. Because he _knows_. Eyes wide, searching the darkness – knowing he'll never see what he's looking for – and his hands move for his sidearm, _because Jesus; shock does things to people_ … but his holster is both unclipped and empty.

Of course they are.

But this isn't routine.

This isn't what normally happens. There isn't even a 'normal' to consider. _So what changed? Oh God, what changed?_

The pulse of his heart is all he feels, all he hears. And for the first time, the shadows of the department crawl towards him, unseen.

 _He's here…_

As if to verify the thought, the light from a solitary monitor quietly switches on three desks away – the server next to it still down for the count - and a pale screen slowly illuminating the form sat on the desk in front of it. A dark silhouette emphasised by an even darker mask.

The facial impediment was… eerie. At the very least it was intimidating. Fully black, the material thick and smooth with the odd suggestion of grey, it covered the entirety of the face. _And_ the hair. No skin was visible. There was a minor shape where the ears should have been. Angular, slightly pointed, but not intrusive to the effect of the entirety of the mask. It gave the 'face', such as it is, a visceral quality. An almost animalistic feel to the design… Feline. But no, it was definitely human. There was something very 'covert ops' about it too. Or at least it would have been if he hadn't seen this man in action.

Inhuman felt more accurate. It didn't shine like PVC either, more… leather? Kevlar? Some sort of flexi-resistant fibre connected to a hidden body suit…?

The thing about the vigilante? He wasn't seen until he wanted to be seen. And when he wanted to be, which was few and far in-between, you only saw the bare minimum. The shadows hid him well. As if he _brought_ the darkness. His literal undefined form was all Hilton's eyes could decipher and it didn't mean much since he knew the man was also wearing a black coat. Whether to hide his shape or to keep warm, Hilton had never asked, had never _wanted_ to.

The vigilante had only visited him once before and even then, it was only to give him a warning: to stay out of his way.

So what could he possibly want with him here?

It was quiet for almost too long before-

"You're working late."

Another unsettling facet to the vigilante was… the voice. There was some sort of vocal processor attached to his outfit; there had to be. A voice amplifier; some sort of modulator? Maybe? Another way to disguise his voice into something unrecognisable. It was something the SCPD hadn't come across before and in the months since he'd first heard the vigilante speak, he and the rest of the squad still hadn't managed to locate any manufacturers.

"Cat got your tongue Lucas Hilton?"

He jumped, realising he'd been staring. "S-sorry." Swallowing, he tried to tear his gaze away from the vigilante to the - _I can't see a thing anyway_ \- room around him… and failed. "I was… I was just, er…"

"Preoccupied." Despite the obvious phonetic burr of artificial modulators, the voice was… oddly soft. A fluidic hum, and would be almost musical in tone if it wasn't so… calculating. Neither high nor low in frequency, it simply…is what it is. There was nothing discernible that he could gather from it. Not tells. Nothing.

He shivered. "Yes."

"Then tonight we have something in common." The vigilante shifted where he perched, one leg casually leaning atop of the desk making him appear languidly at ease. Hilton knew differently. His next words proved this. "Laurel Lance."

He blinked. "I'm sorry?"

"I gave you sensitive information pertaining to Adam Hunt's extensive contract violations, without breaching the legal parameters for the procurement of such Intel: it's usable in court."

"I know-"

"-I then handed you, _personally_ , a list of account numbers in which to charge CEO Hunt with embezzlement from his own clientele sheet…" The vigilante paused, head tilting sideways, discolouring the dim light. "I explained to you what the consequences could be if such information fell into the wrong hands."

Already, Hilton was shaking his head. "I didn't give or tell any-"hat?ext words proved this.

at ease. Hilton knew failed. "rst solid lead into Carlos Vuentes.

"And you gave the case to Laurel Lance."

Though there was barely any inflection in how the words were spoken, Hilton understood that the vigilante wasn't… satisfied.

"Lieutenant Ellet did that. _He_ did that. There-"

"I instructed," as if Lucas hadn't said a word – and it was ironic given how many times Lucas had interrupted Brian earlier - the Vigilante finished, "that a man such as Hunt, with all his connections, would make sure to utilize _methods_ against the prosecution and that whichever defence attorney took the case would have to have an extensive history in dealing with corporate criminals; that they would have to understand the risks involved as they move against him. Laurel Lance falls into neither of these categories. Nepotism wasn't something I considered you or Detective Lance capable of."

"Look, that isn't what happened." Though he couldn't see his face, he got the feeling that the vigilante's eyebrows were raised. "Quentin didn't want his daughter anywhere near this case; Ellet went over his head, claiming that it would raise police distinction in the eyes of the public if CNRI and the daughter of a cop were utilized in the incarceration of Hunt. And he put it on record that it was issued as a favour to Lance. The reason why he isn't here right now is because he's trying to talk to Laurel." Hilton shook his head. "She's stubborn; she won't quit easily."

"Or at all."

"…Right."

"This isn't the first time Ellet abused authority, but he's small fry: it isn't him I'm concerned about. Not right now."

And the air in the room suddenly feels closer. "What do you mean?"

"It doesn't matter." The dismissal is quiet but absolute and Hilton feels like whatever credibility he may have had with the vigilante has just vanished. _Shit_. "I won't be feeding you information again."

Feeling like he's just lost way too much ground – ground he didn't even realised he'd had – Hilton took a step closer, but-

"We were never partners." The vigilante said, titled head now straight. "I simply offered you an olive branch and you deferred authority on the subject. It told me everything I need to know. You allocated responsibility because you didn't know what to do with it." The implication was clear: 'I reached out to the wrong person'.

For one long moment Hilton felt unusually disappointed. And a little relieved. It was a profound sensation. Then again… the vigilante was right. He'd passed it straight to his lieutenant who'd fobbed it off. But… the vigilante unnerved him. Even though small for a man – he swore this person couldn't be taller than 5"9 or 10 – he had a presence that Hilton didn't know what to do with. He was at war with his own beliefs: half of him believed in his badge but the other half was losing faith and relying more and more on the vigilante to be there to fill in the holes. Even if it wasn't a _spoken_ truth.

Yet if push came to shove… was he strong enough, really, to deal with this guy?

Watching as the Vigilante shifted smoothly to his feet – not making a sound – and blocking the little light left he knew the answer. _No. I'm not._

"What will you do?" He asked, acquiescent.

"You don't need to know. Now tell me about Vuentes and why Niles Stanford wants a deal."

The sudden question threw him off guard. "You heard about that?"

"Yes." The vigilante moved and Hilton could _barely_ see him scanning the documents on the desk he'd sat at. "I was here the whole time."

Lucas blinked. Once. Twice "I was on the phone for 20 minutes."

He didn't look up. "And I was in the room with you."

He licked his lips. "…I didn't hear a thing."

The mask, the face, turned to look at him. "That's kind of the point." Then those goggled eyes – because those eyes were in fact covered with expensive looking, thin, black metallic covers – went back to snooping. "Which name is Stanford after?"

"He wants the other two."

"Of the Big Three Traffickers?"

"Yes."

"Which one is he pressing for first?"

"Simon Granville."

Straightening, the vigilante looks at Hilton again. There's something about the action which makes him think that the vigilante is working through a weight heavier than steel. It's a dark silence. Until…

"That'll be difficult." The vigilante eventually states… slowly.

Apprehension begins to twits at his insides. "You know him, don't you?"

" _Simon Says_."

"Sorry?"

"That's what he made them say, a game he'd play with them."

"With who?"

"The girls."

And god, does the implications of those two words hit Lucas Hilton like a battering ram. But the vigilante speaks it for him. "Like most boys he likes to play with his toys. And his money. Unfortunately he isn't frequenting Starling right now. But I'll be watching for when he does. Tell that to Stanford." Then, with a slight twist he leaves Hilton, fading completely into the dark.

"Wait! I need to ask you about this hood-guy."

For a moment he thinks the vigilante has left him. Then…

"What hood-guy?" The voice is an undertone. _Still_ Hilton can't see him.

"There was a kidnapping today." He states. "It's been all over the news: Oliver Queen and Thomas Merlyn were taken by three men, all armed, and they were killed by some guy in a hood."

"…They were killed?"

Something about the way the vigilante says it… "I know: you don't kill. At least, it's not your aim."

"How did they die?"

"With expert precision. Whoever this guy is he knows his weapons and sometime taught him how to take lives. And how to hunt." He added after a moment of consideration."

"Hunt?"

"The third gunman. We found him in a warehouse two hundred yards away from the others. His gun was empty of bullets and his neck was broken."

When the vigilante spoke again he sounded further away. "I'll look into it. Who were the kidnappers?"

Hilton shrugged. "Just street punks." The vigilante didn't say a word, waiting as if expecting more… but Hilton didn't have more. And the silence was getting to him. He frowned. "Are you there?" Nothing. "…Watchman?"

His heartbeat was skyrocketing.

So when the tiny light from the monitor suddenly went out, surrendering the room to pitch black status, he jumped. Before he could do a thing the lamp on his desk, his computer, the servers in the back and the camera in the room, all switched back on.

He let out a breath. "I'm sticking to homicide and vice… any day of the week. Never tell Lance."

* * *

For some the divide between mask and truth is wide. For others it's a fine line.

For the one who watches over the city… it's both.

Just like the blur between 'good' and 'bad' is more 'grey' than 'black' or 'white'.

But it's what happens when searching for a cure, for targeting the disease and not just the sickness. And for realising that there is no cure, no stopping it…

 _I'm just trying to make this city a better place._


	6. Chapter 6

**Freak in the Mask**

 **Queen Mansion**

It was quiet. Too quiet.

Silence was fine, _if_ he was free to move. To train. To do what he needed to do. So, because it was quiet - the unnatural kind, created by doors and walls and emptiness - Oliver had to leave. He _needed_ to, sure, but he also wanted to. Everything in between was… uncomfortable. Dinner and conversation and smiles and nothing familiar. He didn't know how to simply _be_. He wanted to go.

But.

"Oliver."

 _Mom._

Turning - knowing he wouldn't be going anywhere now - it was still a surprise to see her stood there in the foyer; as if 5 years hadn't passed. As if they - his mother, himself, everyone else - hadn't changed. The image was solid.

The image was an image.

"Where are you going?" Moira Queen - as poised and as warm as he remembered her being - reached out a hand towards where he stood at the bottom of the stairs. "We're watching a movie; me and Walter." The addition wasn't necessary; the man hadn't left her side since dinner. Another meal where Oliver couldn't quite stomach the menu but had forced himself to stay seated at. "Come join us. It's been too long."

It was the last thing on earth wanted to do right then. But what he wanted didn't matter. The mission did.

Felicity Smoak had come through: he hadn't bartered with the realtor - Mr Mallory - of the Queen Industrial Shipping Factory. He'd just handed over what he knew was roughly 3 times the price – after converting the diamonds in his inheritance vault into cash at the Russian Bodega – into confused but very grateful hands before seizing deeds that would never see the light of day. For all anyone would know, for a while at least, the factory was still abandoned.

All that was left was to save face. To pile onto the image of Oliver 'Ollie the Playboy' Queen and it started here. In this place. With his family.

The fake reality started _now_. He was ready. It had been too long, years.

This would be just once. Just one movie. A placation. Later, he doubted he'd have time. He doubted they'd _want_ him there. It didn't feel real.

 _He_ didn't feel real.

Looking at her – noting the near-masked concern, the hesitation in her eyes that made him ache inside in places he hadn't known existed and an old pain that would probably haunt her for the rest of her life – he smiled. It almost felt sincere. "Sure, mom."

It was for her.

Because it hadn't been the considerate question - the _come join us –_ she thought it was, he knew, as she navigated him to one of the lounge rooms _._ It was her not-so subtle way of saying, _we're a family; it's time to behave like one._ A demand to the universe to give this back to her.

Whether he wanted it or not. It was forgivable.

 _Pretend._ He could do that. He could-

' _But I already had the information ready and waiting. Not that I'm ready and waiting for you – just my information. That is all'_

-Try.

But he kept going back to that. To the phone and her words. To the inexplicable way she'd anticipated what he'd needed. And the oddness that wasn't odd at all.

 _"Just from the time gone," she said down into her phone as she'd stood behind her, moving with her; watching her, "I'd have to wonder if anybody could be or act the same way as they once did."_

"Ollie?" Thea passed him the popcorn once he'd reached on of the sofas. He let it sit there in his lap, unnoticed by all that he didn't take a single kernel. He'd gag on the texture, grimace at the sweetness. _Time_. Give it time. "Preference?"

She gestured to the line of DVDs on the coffee table before twisting around the arm of her chair to reach for her soda. No one saw him stare at them.

He didn't care about _any_ of this.

But they did, so he prodded a random movie he didn't take in the title of as his mother sat glued to her husband - to him, a near-stranger - knowing that Thea wouldn't have placed a single unwanted DVD in the selection. "This one."

It didn't really matter if he liked it or not: they were just happy he was sat there with them. He could give them that. He'd be disappointing them soon anyway. And he'd made peace with that. It-

" _I'm not a doctor or anything… You've been through something most couldn't understand. Did you think you could return home and everything would be the same as it was? You shouldn't have to pretend that everything's fine… And you shouldn't worry when it's not."_

-didn't… matter.

But… he kept going back to her words.

To a stranger.

" _Which will end, like my dignity, in three, two, one…"_

* * *

 **SCPD, 10:20PM**

 _He let out a breath. "I'm sticking to homicide and vice…_ _any_ _day of the week."_

He'd said that, but it had been ten minutes since The Watchman had left, since he'd made Detective Lucas Hilton rethink everything he hadn't thought to consider - _ever_ \- because he'd never truly doubted a fellow officer of the law that way, though he knew there was reason. He knew there were dirty cops in the precinct, but he'd refused to consider having any in his own unit. He knew the moment he started to see the grey between the black and white, that's all he'd _ever_ see.

Hilton stared at the digital clock face on his desk phone.

Maybe that was why the Watchman had… _reconsidered_ with him. He wasn't ready or willing to take that step. Acknowledging that the SCPD wasn't what it as supposed to be warred with knowing that he didn't want to _actively_ do anything about it.

His life was good. His family were safe and looked after. He didn't want to mess any of that up. Even if it meant-

Even if it meant working for a morally corrupt Lieutenant; his boss, with the Captain on sabbatical.

Hilton had never wanted to contemplate distrusting Dave; his Lieutenant. Dave Ellet… personally, he knew nothing about him. Professionally, Ellet had a few fingers in some questionable pies. Judges that Hilton knew were on the take. Lawyers who had connections with the criminal elite. He _knew_ that the man was corrupt.

It just hadn't occurred to him that he'd deliberately deliver a high-class offender to a charity-case lawyer - the daughter of a cop - for any reason less than scrupulous because it was the kind of thing that would make him wonder if Ellet had done _other_ things that had gone under the radar. That had gotten people hurt.

 _No, I won't do this_. He wouldn't start considering doubts against the men he worked with or for. Doubt led to distrust and distrust in the police force, was a path to anarchy.

" _Cat got your tongue Lucas Hilton?"_

His heart was still racing. _Jesus Christ._ The vigilante could make a large room feel very small.

" _I was on the phone for 20 minutes."_

" _And I was in the room with you."_

He'd taken down the system somehow. And the building's auxiliary power, _just_ so he could talk to Lucas Hilton. He'd been in the room with him for more than a few minutes and Hilton, who'd considered himself streetwise, hadn't been aware.

 _I should be writing this up._ He _should_ be reporting it, so why wasn't he?

" _I instructed that a man such as Hunt, with all his connections, would make sure to utilize_ _methods_ _against the prosecution and that whichever defence attorney took the case would have to have an extensive history in dealing with corporate criminals; that they would have to understand the risks involved as they move against him. Laurel Lance falls into neither of these categories. Nepotism wasn't something I considered you or Detective Lance capable of."_

Elbows on his desk, he lifted a hand to rub the back of his neck and he let out a breath he felt he'd been holding in the entire time the vigilante had been there.

" _This isn't the first time Ellet abused authority, but he's small fry: it isn't him I'm concerned about. Not right now."_

Right.

It wasn't just about him right now. It was about Laurel Lance, his partner's daughter; he wasn't touching was about her eagerness to be more - too much, too young, too _soon_ \- and some stars burn bright too fast. He'd met her, had spoken to her and he'd wondered at the defiance in her; her need to prove something only she understood. But it didn't explain why she was aiming for men like Adam Hunt.

 _I can't just ignore this,_ which was whenhis eyes landed on his phone. "Dammit."

He lifted the receiver, hoping his friend and partner was in a better mood than the black one he'd left with a couple of hours before.

 _Not likely_.

"Quentin." He said when his partner accepted his call. "Yeah, I'm still at the station… you're going to want to come back in."

* * *

 **Starling City East Port**

 _I'm just trying to make this city a better place._

And despite Starling's problems, the darkness and all that follows it, there's hope. The people look into the night now, hoping to see it in a shape: a shadow, disguised as a _man_.

A Watchman.

She couldn't always be there, but when she was, she had to place them in order of priority. That could hurt more than a fist to her face. _Priority order_.

It was a theme in Starling City. One she'd learned to navigate. To accept, to a degree, that she couldn't do everything. She couldn't be everywhere at once. She couldn't do what was needed in a fashion stronger than this without making the wrong sort of waves.

She shouldn't be needed at all. She didn't want to be.

But she wondered if she could even live without it now.

Yet, dependence on the police force in almost any context was, unfortunately, impossible in a city that bowed to the whim of the rich and corrupt. She'd been doing this long enough to know the drill. And the less the world knew about her - knew that the vigilante was a _she_ , for instance - the better for them. Let her be a ghost.

At least… that's what she'd wanted.

Rooftop to rooftop; she raced the moon's rotation, looking over the city as she did. A necessary black stain, because the _light_ was still quite small: a deep pocket where crystal brilliance fills the cracks of a dirty mask with black holes for eyes.

Look past the grime long enough, past the filth, the violence, the greed and the lust and eventually you get there. You see the _good_.

Its ugly, but it's _there_. A piece of charcoal: a diamond in the rough. And the things that she'd do to polish off the dirt every once in a while, wasn't near enough.

Starling was a city that prepared during the day and came alive at night. It grew silent as she weaved towards the Harbour; her previous engagement.

Landing on the metal bridge of an old meat packing plant, she hooked her grapple up a lone crane to glide across an expanse of nothing; her thoughts elsewhere.

 _Niles Stanford._ He was slime. Ambitious and questionable in his scruples. But he didn't worry her.

Hilton - though he hadn't said much and had confirmed even less - had given her a lot to think about. However, _priorities_.

Simon Granville wasn't one. And she wouldn't make him one, not to please the self-aggrandising head of HTPU. Not to pull a monster out of hiding when it served greater purposes to leave him curled up in his spiral of darkness for a while. Not when a naïve attorney at CNRI had lofty ideals that she couldn't back with any measure of assurance.

Laurel Lance had a massive target on her back. Courtesy _of_ Laurel Lance. But, like before, this also wasn't her priority.

" _Wait! I need to ask you about this hood-guy."_

Just like this 'man in a hood', though intriguing, wasn't one either; that would come later, tomorrow or the next day.

This night was for Martin Somers.

The next man on her list. She'd discovered this through pure coincidence thanks to Carlos Vuentes; his obsession with freight ships during his trafficking runs and his inability to recognise that predictability could be a weakness, had been his undoing. Mr Somers used the very same docking bay.

They made it so easy sometimes. Until the day one of them gets smart. _That's when I come in._

And though Mr Somers wasn't all that clever, his friends were. And he made up for his lack of intelligence with a deep selfishness and overriding ruthlessness.

If she didn't move fast, he could be the next big fish Miss Lance would leap at.

Moving through the darkness, she slid onto the adjoining warehouse and peeked inside. There was activity. The right names, the scent and hustle of a major drug haul. It was also easy-access and when she found her door, so to speak...

She dropped down.

The night shift had been _paid_ to leave. So, it was quiet. And civilians didn't make habits of taking a walk down to the docks at such an hour. The men on job, they felt safe enough to… well, commit crime.

They weren't, of course. In the gloom of the warehouse, they forgot that shadows are silent.

And maybe it was _past_ time to give a face to the ghost they'd only heard stories about.

"…Gives me the creeps." Casting surreptitious glances into the dark, a man – one horizontally challenged – cleared his throat, shifting on the spot he'd claimed and grunted. "I'm starvin'."

Pulling his jacket closer - smelling that good old 'haven't washed in three days' odour - he tried to ignore the constant tickle at the back of his neck that wouldn't go away.

 _Just unpack the goods, get the all clear from boss man and its one fat pay day. No problems,_ he thought to himself; a hand sliding in self-assurance over the rifle dangling uselessly over on one shoulder. As if he'd been given a crash course in how to use it. _Point it at the guy. Pull the trigger. Guy goes down, right?_

"Kay boys!" He shouted to the men below him, "we gotta' get this shit cleaned up while Mr Summers welcomes in the Triad!" _Better him than me._ A clipboard in one hand and a walkie-talkie in the other, he walked across the top of a ten-foot-high metal crate, exalting in the faces staring up at him; it was good being his boss's go-to. _You got respect_. "Boss-man wants the merchandise unloaded for distribution by midnight!" Said _merchandise_ was a few million dollars' worth of heroin and methamphetamines just lying at the feet of a dozen bought dock-hands. "ETA: 1 hour, 30 and counting. Get to it!"

A wave of movement immediately broke out - they wanted to get paid or they wanted to get high - and abruptly, the very low sound turned to _noise_ , so they didn't notice a figure move overhead. Didn't notice it slip down from God knows where, perching on the rafters.

Couldn't see her crouch, leaning forwards on her haunches.

Watching. Waiting. Listening.

Soft patented leather didn't crudely creak as it stretched. Arms resting on her knees, her gloved hands dangled idly; her body one with the darkness.

The mask tracked the man dozens of feet beneath her, now finally off the crate where he'd lorded it up, as he walked the perimeter - not so much _that_ as finding a decent place to light up - with his zippo already out, ready and waiting.

If he dropped it at the wrong moment, he could set the place alight with the volume of plastic wrap and box foam filling covering the area. But that wasn't why she followed him.

Away from prying eyes and ears - _bad move_ \- the man lifted the walkie-talkie to his mouth. "We're good to go sir."

" _Any problems Tony?"_ Replied a voice on the other end of the line.

Tony; middle-aged, with a dirty baseball cap covering a bald patch on his head...

"It's all on schedule Mr Somers." And he sounded thrilled with himself.

" _Good. Make sure it stays that way. The Triad aren't the type to accept mistakes."_

"No sir, no mistakes." Sweat beaded Tony's forehead but otherwise, he still sounded the eager addict he truly was.

Money and stupidity. Lethal combination. And it shoots up when you add drug dependence. Pun intended.

" _Keep it up. And keep it quiet. Nocenti's been stirring up trouble we don't need with the cops."_

Nocenti?

This was a problem. Men like Somers killed for less than a snitch. But the speed of the night's delivery made sense now. Not in a good way, but logic was logic.

"You want me to take care of it boss?" His keen offer made her shift. The swift turn to violence would never cease to surprise.

" _No. Our special visitor's going to do that. Just do your job and keep people away from the office."_

Special visitor.

The office was the rundown quarter to the side of the warehouse, formerly a packing storeroom... it was also covered in sheets of plastic. The perfect place to kill a man and leave no clear evidence. Of course, there _could_ be, but there were also cops on the take who would make sure there wouldn't be.

The area was secured by 2 armed guards who she was sure, _also_ had no idea beyond a basic one of how to use the weapons they'd been given.

"Yes sir."

Somers was meeting with the Chinese Mafia. Where they trying to make a bigger push into the city? _Who did they send as envoy?_

" _And keep a lookout."_

Tony stopped pacing. "Boss?"

" _I don't want any unexpected guests."_

"Who-"

" _I don't want anybody_ watching _."_

 _Oh_.

It wasn't as much of a surprise as it might have been 6 months ago, a year ago. But her moniker – one she hadn't created – had never been utilised like this, as a warning. Or an insinuation. When she'd first started, she'd kept her night-time _strolls_ to a minimum. Kept her focus on the crime she could prevent at her fingertips. Then she broadened her horizons: looked to the subliminal workings of the criminal underworld, the online dealings, the patterns in the city.

Now, it had finally come to this point. Criminals cautioning criminals about her. Still, maybe it was _just_ that, because they still expected favourable results regardless.

Well, underestimation was always a useful tool. But yes; maybe it was time to be more than a name in the dark.

"Watching?" It took Tony a moment more… then he almost dropped the receiver. "The Watchman?! You kidding' me?!"

" _Quiet! It's just a precaution. If anything happens, the guards will take care of it."_

All in all, there were five guards: two of them thugs, three Chinese Mafia errand boys.

Not enough. Not even close.

"Y-yes boss."

Still, some instincts don't die easily. _Good_. Fear of a faceless ghost was easy to install but for it to take root the _correct_ way, it took years. It _had_ taken years.

Nocenti was another name, another life: she remembered seeing it on Somers's employee roster. A man who was trying to do the right thing about bad men with worse ambitions.

 _They think they're safe; that their money keeps them safe_. But it doesn't. It won't.

Better get to it then.

So, there were five guards…

Then four.

Three.

Two…

* * *

"Jesus." Running a sweaty hand over an even greasier mop of hair, Tony slipped the cap back on his head. _Shit_. He was jonesin' for a joint. Anything to calm his nerves. _The Watchman. Was boss-man for real?_

Existence of Starling City's very own bogeyman was known to everyone in the City, despite the subpoena to keep it from escalating. The cops knew more than most.

Watchman.

A name born from the unstoppable rise in crime. But seeing is believing, and most of those who'd alleged to the misfortune of seeing him up-close were either locked away in Iron Heights or they'd done a runner. Until you saw him, he was more a ghost than reality.

Ghost or not, he'd never busted druggies and crack heads. Not that Tony knew of. And definitely _never_ the CEO's of major businesses. So, Tony was safe.

 _Just thinking about it-_ He shook it didn't matter; _let him roam if he's real. Whatever this guy does, he'll never stop this._

The in-house to external resources - SCPD, DA, CNRI; take your pick - bribes made sure of that, that crime pays. The gangs. Drugs. Murder. Extortion. Solicitation. Arson. Defacement. Fraud and embezzlement. The list was endless.

Gang associated affiliations were a no-show for the vigilante.

Cut the head off the snake and all that; it never ended. He must have known that. Crime didn't stop just because some dude got it in his head to start a fire. Crime had always existed and would always be part of any healthy society. Like a balance. _Yeah_. So why try and stop it when you could just flow with the tide? _Like me._

 _He might not even exist._ A rumour given wings to make the people in the Glades feel safe. A wannabe hero-cop attempting the impossible. _He'll get iced soon._

Patting his pockets, Tony moved to a more secluded part of the warehouse - the workers were working - which wasn't difficult. There were so many places to hide: turn a corner and-

A gloved hand came out of the darkness, covering his mouth.

 _Fuck!_ Choking on an inhale, his first instinct was to scream shrilly. Except, he couldn't. And he couldn't move, couldn't think beyond _help me_. He was pushed back into a wall within the shadows and he knew if anyone came looking, they wouldn't see him. _Them_.

The fingers on his face pressed in so tightly, tears formed. _I'm going to die_.

Because it was The Watchman. It had to be. No one else looked like that.

A real Freak Show.

The face made Tony whimper. It was a black void: sort of _feline_ with no identifying features save the smooth facial musculature, black slim-line covers over the eyes and a strange attachment - also black - around the mouth, which seemed to blend in with the mask overall.

No gender stereotypical marks. Nothing familiar.

Inhuman.

Then, slowly, the vigilante lifted a black, leather clad finger and pressed over the area Tony assumed - prayed - was where his mouth was.

A silent ' _shh'_.

 _What?_

The same finger then pointed to the walkie-talkie at Tony's belt. The face didn't move down with it. It was completely focused on him and it was like he could feel the stare behind the mask. A trickle of terror-fuelled sweat rolled down his back-

" _Tony?"_

Tony jerked in the vigilante's hold: the shadow in black didn't as much as tremble. But then the voice registered.

Boss-man.

The walkie-talkie screamed static- _"Tony, I can't get any of the boys online; what's going on down there?"_

Too terrified to answer, Tony stared at the vigilante. _He took out the guards?!_

But the man in black brought his finger up again and rotated it, a _talk to your boss – tell him everything's fine._

The hand slid off his mouth and encircled his neck; a firm grasp but not tight.

The threat in it, clear.

 _Shit._

"A-all's clear here Mr Somers. You want me to go scout out Bobby?" A guard near the volunteers; they'd snorted coke together a few times. Had a drink. Bought a couple of girls. Good guy.

 _Did this guy kill him?_

He was going to piss himself.

" _Yeah. Get him to move the guys along. And again, keep them clear of here. Nocenti's just arrived."_

Swallowing, Tony shook; feeling the vigilante's fingers tighten on his throat. "Got it."

The walkie-talkie shut off.

Suddenly the mask was an inch from his face. "Find a new boss."

Before Tony could cry - horrified - at the distorted voice, at the way it hummed and rasped and grated all inhuman-like, the hand at his throat whipped around and his head was jerked into the wall-

Darkness.

* * *

"You talked, Nocenti."

On his knees, Victor Nocenti couldn't stop shaking. He was a simple dock worker who'd discovered his boss, Martin Somers, was taking bribes from the Chinese mafia and allowing them to smuggle drugs through the CEO's personal port. Just a dock worker.

A decent man.

And because he was decent, only hours ago Victor had confessed what he knew about his boss. He hadn't had the courage to boldly walk into CNRI; he knew he might be seen. And, if he'd had the money, he would have gone straight to a DA and brought that person with him to the police, but the lawyers there? Most were employed by the City's major business men. Men like Somers. They wouldn't help him. They'd sell him out for green paper.

Instead he'd found a phone and had called a number. Legal Aid Attorney, Laurel Lance. He'd seen her details online – she'd placed a small ad beside the CNRI workplace number - and he'd needed an ally. She'd agreed to help him, sounding so confident and sure and he'd immediately believed in her.

But what she and Victor _hadn't_ thought to wonder about was what might happen if Somers had men monitoring him. Or maybe it went deeper. Maybe there someone monitoring CNRI. He didn't know. It didn't matter.

"Who was your contact?" Somers asked, seemingly calm in his grey suit and tie. "It wasn't in the DA."

Maybe he was too scared to answer… maybe Victor knew that, either way, it was over for him because he didn't say a word. He'd thought he was so smart, using a pay phone instead of his home phone. Calling this lawyer, who spoke for those who couldn't pay for full legal representation, because she'd looked determined in that picture of her standing outside of CNRI - a picture that would be in the papers as of 7am tomorrow - and had sounded more so yet knew _squat_ about how men like Somers worked.

All he could think of now, was his daughter. _I'm so sorry._

He'd tried.

Somers sighed, pulling out a handkerchief from his pocket and wiping his hands on them. Wiping his hands of Victor. "Do it."

There was movement from behind him and not from the guard with the pistol pointed at his face were Victor's eyes flew to first-

The gun ripped out of the man's fingers, flying upwards; dragged into the caverns of the warehouse.

Silence.

"What?" Somers frowned at the man, as if it was his fault.

Lighter footsteps – a woman's – the same from before, clipped behind Victor who couldn't tear his eyes away from the now unarmed guard. "Has anyone done a headcount?"

"Um…" Baffled, the guard looked to his boss. "I don't-"

He was yanked up into the darkness with a yelp, before he could tell his boss all the _other_ things he didn't know.

 _What the-_

Heart pounding, Victor scrambled backwards in junction with Somers who was staring into the shadows of the warehouse. But the woman - her hair platinum blonde, her face exquisitely Asian, figure lithe, eyes violent and dark - stood in front of him before he could move further away.

She pulled out a large, curved knife: looking to Somers. "Go." She jerked her head back to Nocenti. "I'll take care of-"

The few lights that were present, died.

He could hear his heartbeat in his ears, until static replaced it.

"Tony!" Somers hissed into his walkie-talkie from somewhere close. "Tony, what's your-"

Out of nowhere, the vanished guard was thrown down, screaming, from somewhere in the rafters as gunfire sprayed recklessly from the rifle on his shoulder, highlighting-

Highlighting a figure up above with the flare, but it moved too fast - too quietly to track - before the light was cut again. _Oh my god…_

A shuffle later and the small light from the rifle clicked on, in Somers's hand who'd staggered back from the groaning guard; looking far less intimidating and nowhere near the man who'd ordered the Chinese woman to kill him just now. His eyes darted everywhere; an odd fear present there, like he knew _exactly_ what was-

Somers locked on something above Victor, who glanced up with him... and gaped, blanching.

A black ghost streaked overhead; a mass of something – a coat? – surrounding him like an aura and-

And a mask.

Victor stared and – like this creature _felt_ his stare – the face twisted in his direction whilst he moved like a nightmare, the light from the rifle reflecting dimly off its eyes-

"Jesus Christ, he's _real_!" Martin Somers shouted; recoiling backwards, dropping the light and slamming against the wall there. "We've got to go!" Something small and fast hit the wall, _splintering_ it right where Somers's shoulder had been a _second_ before. "Fuck!"

A spike _?_ A… _claw_? Something thin, metallic, angular, almost delicate looking… that could apparently dig into brick. And wood. And-

"Come on!" Tugging the Chinese woman's arm, Somers pulled her with him towards the exit-

One, two, _three_ of the things hit the ground and the platinum blonde woman had to quickly move her hand before the fourth was embedded into the back of it.

The hand that been reaching towards Victor's throat with the knife in its grasp.

A warning.

Somers was already sprinting out of sight and - throwing back the deeply determined look of a woman who knew when to fall back and when to move forwards - the Chinese killer called out. "Next time, Watchman."

She vanished into the hallway and all Nocenti could do was blink, heart racing, body trembling…

Until he _stopped_ blinking when the- _oh my god; it's the Watchman_ , dropped down from up high _right_ in front of where he sat, spread eagled, on the floor.

Wide eyed, he gulped. _Please don't hurt me_. He'd lost his voice.

Why wasn't it – _he?_ – following Somers and the woman?

Black and elusive, the mask tilted. "Victor Nocenti?" It spoke; an artificial hum that sent a shiver down his spine.

 _That's not human._

Victor gulped… then nodded, because there was no way that this person _wasn't_ here to help him. Not after this. _Please just give me this_. "Y-yeah?"

"The police are coming; you need to leave before they get here." _Er, what?_ Weren't the police, the good guys? "Go to the SCPD's main precinct in one hour. Ask for Detective Lance. Tell him everything and be discreet or your daughter will suffer the consequences. And go out _that_ way."

A black finger pointed to Victor's left instead of his right, where his ex-boss had fled the scene to see a dusty set of hanging sheets.

"… _or your daughter will suffer the consequences."_

He had to do this quietly or Somers would go after her.

He turned back to the vigilante. "But, what-"

The Watchman had disappeared.

After several seconds of bated breath, so did Victor.

* * *

They were too easy to find, but she didn't go to them.

Instead, she watched. _It's what I'm good at._

She'd tagged them, needing to be led to where they kept each shipment: this wasn't their first. Only then could a drug bust happen. And they'd called the police: standard protocol. Call the police to get rid of the prowler.

"How did he know to be there? Who told?!" Somers - walking fast enough for it to be called a run - was hissing and it was somewhat of a joke to watch the same man who'd calmly ordered the woman at his side to kill an innocent man just minutes before, slowly fall into complete disrepair. "I thought I told you to keep communications to a bare minimum."

"We did." Triad internal security was not to be underestimated. If they wanted something kept quiet, then it was kept quiet. "It must have been Nocenti. Or he told someone else-"

"And somehow _they_ told the Watchman."

After two years of being present in Starling, they still had no idea how she did what she did. Better that no one ever know she was a hacker too.

"Why would he eve care?" Stumbling - sweating - to a halt outside his car door, Somers looked over at the men fleeing with him to the vans; each carrying bags of heroin, meth and money. Some of them just plain running in any direction. "Did we get everything?"

"Everything the police can use to trace us." The woman stated. "But we need to silence Nocenti. And you need to find a Defence Attorney fit to face Starling's best and _brightest_." The snub to the police force was clear.

And, from where she was eavesdropping, _I can't refute it._

"The acting police chief is easy to handle - he has a history he'd kill to keep silent - but, unfortunately, some of his employees are not." China continued; standing poised and fearless as Somers all but threw papers and files that would surely tie him to the drugs into the interior of his spotless car. "Get. A. Lawyer."

Somers straightened, affecting a cool countenance. "Miss White." A name _…_ and not the one Watchman wanted to hear. "I don't have that kind of pull with the DA Office yet."

True. As a criminal, he was brand new and hardly a mastermind. It was why the Triad were using him. He saw dollar signs and reputational advantages. The Triad – China White – saw a means for the Triad to gain another foothold into the City. He had lawyers for his business but not one he could trust to keep his secrets.

"Now's the time to get some." China ordered, turning towards her Vespa. "There's always someone looking for a new client."

Neck clenching, he nodded before calling out after her. "Find Nocenti's contact."

Flipping her hair back, China jutted her chin at him as she threw a leg over her bike, oblivious to the Watchman nearby. _They always are_.

Having tagged his car with a GP's, the _vigilante_ hid behind a water tank on the opposing side of the cars, letting Somers drive away. It served greater purposes. She needed more proof. Needed to bring him in during the day. Then she could stop him from targeting Nocenti. From targeting Victor's contact. From smuggling drugs into the city. _Then_ , she could face China White.

Reconnaissance. She'd gain more this way. And she held zero interest in puffing up White's already inflated ego by starting a fight. Here. Where the woman's associates were close by. All carrying automatics.

 _I hate guns._

* * *

 **Midnight**

Panting, afraid and watching every shadow for movement in an unfamiliar sort of hope, Victor made it into the precinct.

He'd listened. He'd obeyed. For over an hour, he'd hidden. Then, knowing Somers's men had left; Victor had flat out sprinted towards the nearest bus stop and made it into SCPD'S main building.

No one had chased him.

Shaking, Nocenti watched a man - one sharp eyed, gruff and world-weary - shove open the side doors to where Victor stood in front of the reception desk in a waiting room that was disconcertingly busy. Was this Detective Lance? Had the Watchman told him to wait to give him time to get into the precinct?

The man – Detective Lance – caught sight of him and paused at the sub-par coffee machine; surly and blinking at the sheen of sweat on Victor's face before peering more seriously at the stark fear in his eyes. Before Victor knew it, the clearly hardened detective had abandoned his search for caffeine and was stood in front of him. He was taller than expected; wiry and alert, given the hour.

But he nodded at the uniform behind the desk first, jerking his head at Victor in question. "What's this?"

"Sir," the boy in blue - he was somewhere in his early 20's and Nocenti shuddered at the random and unwelcome image of the lad covering him under fire - shook his head, arched brows making his eyes seem wider than usual. "You aren't going to believe this…"

"You'll be surprised at the things I've heard, kid."

The young officer shook his head. "Sir, this involves the vigilante." He leaned in as he said it, as if worried they'd be overheard. "And possibly-"

The detective had heard all he needed. "Ok, let's keep this quiet for now, yeah?" He ordered but an arched brow at Victor – a _why did you open your big mouth_ – made Victor simultaneously flush in embarrassment and fearful frustration. "Come on, let's take a seat…"

* * *

Dawn was still hours away; more than enough time for sleep.

She'd left the scene; it was impossible to stay with the arrival of the SCPD. She also hadn't followed Somers or China, knowing they'd go to ground for the evening and then Somers would lawyer up.

When they felt safe, _then_ they'd lead her to their supply.

In turn, she'd checked up Laurel Lance's case file on Hunt in the smallest of hopes that her father had managed to persuade her _not_ to try and prosecute the man.

He hadn't.

It'd been all too easy to slip into CNRI; luckily - though she knew Miss Lance sometimes stayed till dinner time - the woman wasn't the type to neglect sleep to get the job done. Especially since she _wouldn't_ get the job done.

Her case to prosecute Adam Hunt was _poor_.

She'd stared stunned at Miss Lance's 'thought board'. On it, were pictures and print-offs of Hunt and his 'posse', of Rob Stellart on his mobile… nothing incriminating in sight.

Laurel Lance had each picture surrounding a word: dubious.

Dubious.

How professional.

The man who'd been stealing money from his clients… was dubious. Excellent deduction. Did Miss Lance come to that conclusion before or after she'd been given the evidence?

Another word sat beneath an article detailing his 'possible' embezzlement. This one was 'culpable'.

3 seconds after looking at the board, she'd felt real fear.

Rob Stellart would eat her alive. All it would take would be for him to reveal that Miss Lance had graduated from law school only one year before and no one would take her seriously.

Laurel Lance had to know that. And the evidence - evidence provided to Ellis and passed to Hilton, _by me_ \- she'd been given was good, but it wasn't enough to sway a bought Jury. Yet, she was trying to compensate for her that - and her lack of experience - by over-facing them with unnecessary information; aiming to reach them through their love of family, through their conscience.

CEO Hunt was friends with judge Grell; a man Hunt had practically given his re-election to and that even with official evidence, it meant the trial was doomed. And so was Miss Lance.

Mr _Hunt_. If he decided that she was too big a nuisance and he was brave enough to have her neutralised - _knowing_ everyone would know it was him without having any real evidence to the contrary - that his friendship with the upper echelons would save him, he'd do it. In a heartbeat. Which meant, Laurel Lance was already in his crosshairs.

How a woman without credential standing could gain such an enemy, was beyond comprehension. Why had Miss Lance started doing this? And it wasn't bravery. It was stupidity. Or maybe stubbornness. Maybe she didn't know just how dangerous Hunt and all the others like him could be because of limited experience. Or, worst of all, it could be pride. Ambition without forethought.

Maybe she had something to prove.

It was absurd.

 _I thought_ … there'd been a chance that Miss Lance was some kind of prodigy in the making and was looking to use her intelligence. She was just like the multitude of other lawyers working at CNRI, except that she thought a _dubious_ man – regardless of money or history or power or evidence – was hers to take down.

The Watchman stared with dread for another minute before returning to her home rather than her safe house. She slipped through the window she'd left open around the back of the building on the second floor.

Switching on the bathroom light, the figure in black stood silent, masked and very still in front of the mirror.

She did this for a long time.

She did this for long enough that Mau, bored with waiting, sauntered into the area; hoping up to the cabinet by the seat. Watching her watch herself.

Then, like coming home – resurfacing – practised hands came up to unseal and unclip the mouth piece of her mask before pulling the entirety if the cowl up from her throat, face and head.

Bottle blond hair - static, alive and almost electric in that moment - blue eyes and pink cheeks were looking back at her in the mirror.

"…Hi." Felicity Smoak whispered at herself.

Mau purred.

* * *

 **Queen mansion, 8:15am**

"What is this?"

At the question, Thea - who had already been looking at her brother - gave a tiny start. "What?"

He gestured to the screen, apple in hand. "That news report." Reaching for the remote, he turned up the volume. "I don't understand."

Frowning at his abrupt interest, she listened as the reporter on WEBG News announced the release of a non-fiction novel, the contents of which pertained to economic change in the city; it went completely over her head. Then she saw a flash of a picture and the headline attached… _ah. Of course_. "Yeah. Looks like Laurel's started going after the heavy hitters." Would he actually react to her if they spoke of his ex-girlfriend some more? "Looks like she's in charge of getting that Hunt guy-"

"No." One word. Not clipped. Not… anything really. "I know about that, but there was something else; it's coming up in a minute."

Quiet too, Thea waited with him.

It was kind of strange how _not_ strange having her brother at home with her was. As if he'd always been _right_ there. As if he'd never died.

 _You were with me the whole time._

Maybe that was true. And maybe what she'd said was just as true too.

 _I knew it! I knew you were alive._

She'd known. She just hadn't always believed.

Now, with them both in the lounge; eating breakfast... it was surreal yet, _not_. It was impossible to reconcile. Worse, she didn't know how to deal with the fact that he was so close lipped after years not hearing his voice. So closed _off_. She wanted to know him.

She wanted him to tell her about the island. _About dad_. She wanted him to smile like he used to; like everything was one big joke. _It would liven up the place a bit_. She wanted him to confide in her.

She wanted to feel connected to him.

Instead, she felt his absence.

He was right there, feet from her, but he _felt_ a 1000 miles away. _Story of my life_. So really, it wasn't so strange that she didn't feel any different having him home again. _What was even the point in him coming home?_

Why wouldn't he talk to her? Didn't he want to? It was like his family was already an afterthought to him now that he was back. His dickish behaviour pre-shipwreck had never stretched to her before. Obviously, he was just more of the same. Worse, because now he didn't even spare a thought for his sister.

 _Like mom._

Her mother had all but disappeared from Thea's life the moment they'd found out the devastating truth about her father and brother. Left alone, it had fallen to Raisa to make sure she got to school on time, to see to it that she ate 3 square meals a day and did her homework.

She wasn't always successful.

 _What can I say? I aim to disappoint in all areas of my life._ It was different now though. _Mom has Walter._ They'd gotten married the year before. But…

She'd thought things would change. That as soon as Ollie got home, everything would miraculously alter and be better. Be more.

Whole.

Instead, his return had only emphasised everything each member of her screwed up family had tried to bury. And for that, she couldn't help but be angry at him. He came home and made everything worse without making one thing better. That wasn't how this was supposed to go. He was supposed to return, and she was supposed to heal.

 _Mom doesn't get it_.

Besotted with Ollie being home, Thea hadn't seen it either at first. Everything _wasn't_ better just because he was back. Her mother couldn't just forget how she hid in her room. She couldn't brush aside the last 5 years and play the perfect mom with her perfect son and daughter.

It was sickening.

Nothing had changed. Nothing had been addressed. It was one big Merry go Round of 'the same'.

And yet… when she'd seen him, she'd felt happy again. Truly happy.

It hadn't lasted long. Not when she felt the barrier between them. Maybe it was simply the stretch of time between them; their relationship had always been uncomplicated and there was ten years difference in their perspectives. But something was else. There was a space there; a place where she… wasn't. A place that _he'd_ put there, leaving nothing but unanswered questions in his wake, like…

He'd been home for a couple of days, but he'd only eaten with them once and he'd scarcely touch the food he was given. Just like how he was eating an apple for breakfast whilst _she'd_ munched on scrambled eggs and toast. He was huge; how was he living off an apple for breakfast?

" _I'm sure Raisa could fix up another plate." She was sure Raise already had one prepared for him; just in case._

 _He shrugged, passing up bacon for the fruit basket. "I'm not hungry Thea."_

Lie.

It wasn't as if she'd suddenly gone blind. She _had_ noticed her brother was _built_ now. Bigger than before. _Brother grew up_. She didn't know what he looked like beneath the clothes, but it was still different. Just as he was on the inside. Remote.

Blank.

 _Not like now_ , she thought; observing him as he watched the screen with a kind of raptness she'd yet to see in him yet.

" _More news on the vigilante front."_ A reporter stated. _"In a surprise report, it seems the Watchman made an appearance last night at the east Harbour. Police presence was verified early this morning as workers arriving for their shift were turned away."_ The screen alternated away from the newswoman to show the site in question. Judging by the skyline, it was filmed just after dawn and CST's were glimpsed in a cordoned off area. _"Details of the night's events are, so far, being kept quiet. However, sources state that the assistance of Narcotics' (NCJRS) K-P detection dogs were brought in and are still present at the scene. More news on the possibility of a smuggling ring in Starling later today. But for now,"_ once more, the media centre was back in view; images of the crime scene still broadcasting at the top right corner of the screen, _"the sighting of the vigilante has us wondering."_ The presenter turned to his partner. _"From trafficking to drugs; do you think this is the Watchman's new target?"_

" _Well, why not; with his hit on trafficking, it's a logical step forwards. I'm only hoping the mayor will rescind the standing order soon. I mean, how many more of these sightings have to occur before this vigilante becomes an official state in the city?"_

The presenter was nodding alongside her _. "Do you think it's come to that point?"_

" _I think it came to that point months ago."_

"Watchman." And Thea thought it was only _slightly_ weird that she jumped again when she heard his voice. "Who is that?"

She cleared her throat. "That's right. You wouldn't know." She rolled her eyes, _of course he wouldn't._

"Know what?"

And he sounded… genuinely interested. The first time he had since his return.

She peered at him.

His voice was light, slightly confused – what she figured was his usual expression – and he this kind of arrogant, devil may care attitude about him; as if nothing bothered him. _That hasn't changed at least. Pure Ollie._ Kind of nice to see…

But he hadn't taken his eyes off the screen, following the discussion between the presenters.

Would he even react if she answered? Would he notice if she just walked out of the room? "The Watchman is… kind of an urban myth. Or at least he _was_. I'm not sure he exists but someone is out there." She reached down her school bag. "Whoever he is, he's made a name for himself; especially in the Glades. The groupies are _real_."

She'd met a few at her school for rich kids, floozy's and sycophants. Most didn't care, thought it was beneath them. But there were a few who _liked_ the idea of a criminal successful in breaking rules and not getting caught. Thought it was 'totally rad', _which I'm pretty sure was popular towards the latter end of the 80's._

"He's a vigilante?" Oliver turned to her, his brows meeting. Disbelief suffused every inch of him but otherwise, there was nothing she could read. _Typical_. "Starling City has a _vigilante_?"

"Yep. The cops thought it might be him that saved you yesterday." She absently told him, moving around the couch for her coat. "Go figure. That guy in the hood you described is probably a copycat."

"…Right."

"Either way; they're both criminals." She finished and, once again, Ollie wasn't looking at her, but at the tv-

"Oliver."

Moira Queen - her usually poised and incredibly collected self – walked into the lounge with Walter who greeted them both with a smile and a kiss on the cheek for Thea.

At the sound of his name, Oliver was finally pulled away from the screen. He looked over at them, pinpointing on the stranger standing behind his mother. "Mom?"

She smiled the same smile she used to charm other go-getters, except this was filled with such permissive affection, Thea almost threw up in her mouth. "Indulge me Oliver. I'd like to introduce you to," she moved aside as if to present the huge, dark skinned, intimidating looking man standing there; as silent as stone, "John Diggle. He'll be your bodyguard for the foreseeable future."

 _Whoa._

"I don't need a babysitter." Oliver immediately contested, looking politely bemused.

Politely.

Thea wanted to scream: _did he even feel real emotion anymore?_

'John Diggle' didn't so much as twitch but Thea recognised _that_ look on her mother, which meant it was _very_ much her cue to make an escape.

"After what happened yesterday," her mother said, "I would feel much better knowing that you're safe and protected when you're not in this house."

 _Ugh, I'm out of here._ Always a show with the Queen family. She'd see the Robot and her Stepford mother afterschool. Maybe. "See ya." She waved as she left the room, hating that slice of emptiness inside her and wondered if Christina would get to school on time before the gates slid closed.

There were only so many places a girl could light up after all.

* * *

Bodyguard.

Guarding a body.

It _definitely_ wasn't holding a semi-auto in desert terrains. And after five years, he still didn't have a better opinion of it. Except-

"So, is this what you do; you protect billionaires?" Mr Oliver Queen asked him.

It was absolutely cocky as hell.

But his eyes were 100% _not_.

 _There's something off about this guy_. Not _bad_ necessarily, just ambiguous. Something was in those eyes - that stare - that John Diggle had never seen before in a rich kid, though 27 was pushing it in terms of 'kid'. "Sometimes." He aired non-committedly, and it was the truth.

Coming home from war years before, John had protected more than his fair share of the rich and shameless. Their families, secret mistresses and the odd business party. The difference between them and _this_ guy was that, with the former, Dig was wallpaper. Part of the scenery. He didn't exist to them unless there was trouble, so the chances of being asked questions had been slim to none. They weren't interested in paid shields and statues. He'd preferred it that way.

But Oliver Queen…

"It can't be very rewarding." Mr Queen added, looking him in the eye with very little to go by, expression wise. Save for the slight smile.

 _Yeah, there's something to that._

The near- _smirk_ justcurving the side of his mouth. Very devil may care, irritatingly confident and utterly without a care in the world, which meant he could and would say whatever came into his head.

Except - _'it can't be very rewarding'_ \- he didn't think much of himself. It contradicted the look.

"… _is this what you do; you protect playboy billionaires?"_

As if it were beneath him.

John shifted in his seat, adding. "It is what it is."

"Hm."

Like he was already bored, his charge peered out of the window to his right. _Of course_. What else had he expected-

"What it is, is my mother's way of monitoring me. I don't need to be carted around the city like a prize horse."

John's eyebrows arched to his near-to non-existent hairline. _Whoa_.

The king of Passive aggressive.

Surprising. Even more so, was that Mr Queen's voice hadn't risen a single decimal. No inflections. Almost monotone. Factual. "Still, I've been hired to do a job. You'll find that I'm very good at my job Mr Queen."

The guy turned to look at him with _slight_ interest. "Military?"

"Three tours."

Again, Mr Queen hummed. And there was another moment of silence. "What do you know of this… Watchman?"

 _That came out of left field_. "You've already heard about the Watchman?"

"This morning was the first time since I was found that I was near a television."

Dig cleared his throat. Whatever this was, Mr Queen was showing a remarkable adjustability to his environment after years spent alone on an island. "No one really knows anything about it. _Him_. They say he showed up a year or so ago, started hitting crime where it hurts." The Watchman didn't appear discriminatory; something Diggle would have admired.

 _If_ he was real.

"'They say?' 'A year or so ago?' ' _It?_ '" Mr Queen quietly reiterated.

"Like I said." Dig met his eyes through the rear-view mirror. "No one really knows, save for the ghost-stories spreading like wildfire. No two the same. Not where he came from or how and when he started. Or why. Not even if he's real or just someone's shot at hope."

"Hope?"

"For the Glades." For it to return to the place it had once been decades ago. "Though, if I were to believe it, I'd question the logic and morality of somehow who resorts to working outside of the law to make waves."

And this Mr Queen, he was smart. Fast. "You don't think he's what everyone else thinks he is." It wasn't a question. And he still had that expression on his face.

"There is someone out there." Because _things_ had happened. "Whoever it is, whatever he's thinking," someone creating this image to make waves, "he doesn't seem to be doing it for notoriety."

"What do you mean?"

And for the first time since they'd entered the limousine, he'd gotten Mr Queen's full attention.

"Well," John started, "there have been no pictures or statements made, but there haven't been any results in catching this guy either, which makes me feel less than likely to believe it's true and not just some cop. Then again, an immediate mandate was issued after the city created the moniker. No newspaper in the city or media site is legally permitted to use the name Watchman in any printed or official piece of work. If it's not a scam, or a desperate man's attempt at making waves - or a cop's stake at revenge - then whoever it is, isn't doing it for a thank you."

Which would ultimately, make that person far more dangerous. He understood how it worked, having a wild card working on an altogether different frequency than the rest. Ordinarily, it got that person a bullet to the brain but every once in a while, that person grew too capable to be tethered. To be controlled. Or caught.

It was dangerous.

The media had found alternate ways to circumvent the mandate too: a law rushed into existence, leaves holes in its armour. And the people wanted the hope this person inspired.

Mr Queen didn't say anything else and the moment stretched…

"Mr Queen?" Dig slowed at a crossing and looked over into the back seat. "Sir-"

There was no one in the car with him.

"What the hell?" He breathed, his eyes darting left and right.

The left side door was, however, wide open and Dig dove for it, closing it just in time to miss the car that almost took it off its hinges. _Dammit_.

Oliver Queen was a pain in the ass. An interesting pain in the ass.

 _Damn._

* * *

 **Queen Consolidated, 21** **st** **Floor**

"There you are."

Only one voice in the whole of the QC building could take her attention away from the promise of coffee, however brief.

Head jerking up from her cup - that was sat on top a tiny table, with her secret coffee stash and welcome absence of employees based in her department - she blinked at the sight of Mr Steele strolling down the hallway towards the dingy kitchen stood in, just one hallway left of her office. "Mr Steele!" She internally eyerolled at herself. _Why do I have to announce him like that?_

At least she hadn't shot up to her feet this-

 _Oh, wait._

She was already right there: ramrod, to attention and pretty much ready to do whatever the frack he asked. But she could congratulate herself on the absence of a near-salute because, _hah_ , _that_ hadn't happened before, _nope_. Still, he didn't seem her notice her usual struggling as anything other than the norm for 'Miss Smoak'.

But what was he doing on the 21st floor?

British accent brushing against the walls, "I'm sorry I haven't had the chance to talk to you," he came to a stop just feet from her and it took her a moment to recognise that his usual habit of fixing his cufflinks, might not be so much habit as it was a way to organise his thoughts. "About the other night?"

 _Oh, you mean the night where I took your stepson from the Queen Mansion for a sleepover less than 24 hours after his return and didn't tell anyone?_ Moira Queen could never meet her. Never. Ever. "Oh. _Oh_. No! I…" Eyes closing – _get it together_ – she shook her head. "It wasn't-" What? It wasn't what? _Say words that don't implicate you in the kidnap of-_

"Relax, Miss Smoak." He raised a hand - palm out - that she saw when her eyes _peeked_ back open. "Please. You did more than I."

What did that mean?

Her mouth opened, closed. Opened. "Thank you. Sir." And it just blurted out of her. "Please don't fire me."

"I'm not." One magnificently coifed brow marginally arched, he looked so used to her floundering he just stepped right over it. "I'm here concerning another matter."

A panicky smile flickered into existence because, _old habits die hard_. Being alone with her boss… it hadn't always ended well for her. But this was Mr Steele.

"You did good work with the requisitions order." He smiled without really smiling at all. "Thank you for the notes you left at the mansion. Mr Stole's been incarcerated for the foreseeable future; he won't be returning to QC."

"Great!" She backtracked, because that was more than one little bit of info for her to process, "I mean, _not_ great in the 'yay, crime' kind of-"

"Unfortunately," he cut in as amiably as he could, "As much as I wanted to, I wasn't able to pass his position to you. Not yet, at least." He added generously, as if he feared some great disappointment from her.

She hadn't even considered it.

 _He'd wanted that?_ To promote her? Without an interview? Just because? It wasn't just that either; he'd trusted her with sensitive information, trusted her to do exactly what he'd all but implied but hadn't _said,_ and she'd read him perfectly. She was good at that kind of thing. He'd made a beeline for her and was now thanking her for going above and beyond the requirements of her job. Internal Affairs weren't called in.

He'd gone to her. And she'd proved, had paid his trust, his gut, right.

 _Huh_. She hadn't thought about it like that before.

Mr Steele was _definitely_ a far cry from any previous employer she'd had. And she didn't know what to say, except a surprised, "Okay."

He nodded. "Good. Keep well Miss Smoak." He paused for a second as if deliberating. "I must say, those shoes very much become you." Then he nodded, ignoring her mad blinks. "We'll talk again."

"O-oh, okay!"

Crisp as always, he turned; walking back the way he came, leaving Felicity just… standing there. _He noticed my shoes?_ Had Mr Steele always been one of those guys who could appreciate a good - high priced - shoe, the heel of which elongated the legs and the colour working nicely off her skirt?

Maybe it was the British in him.

It hadn't been an ogle. He was just letting her know and really, it was lovely to be told. She had a secret stash of stylish clothes on one side of her closet – they came with shoes and jewellery – that she'd kept for the future. Maybe she'd be promoted. Maybe she'd have to go to a dinner. Maybe her lack of sophistication beyond the basic appreciation for suit skirts and shirts was part of why her supervisor hadn't take her as seriously as he should have. Maybe she'd done that on purpose. The image a person projected tended to amount to a lot in the business world: it was why suits and the like, were mandatory.

She wasn't one of those women who believed she should change her looks to fit with the program. She was a blonde, glasses wearing nerd with amazing leg tonnage; she was already breaking all kinds of stereotypes, but she'd made sure to hold back in her attire. Clothes – the right hair do – can make a person stand out. The shoes even her boss had noticed, _clearly_ made her stand out. Since she knew Walter Steele was a gentleman, she knew it wasn't a bad thing.

And, in truth, she really wanted to wear those clothes. She just didn't know why it was so strong in her now after holding back for some time.

Her boss had thought to promote her.

It was warming. _Ten different kinds of flattering, really._ It shouldn't have been; they both knew she could do her job with her eyes closed, but it was how he said it. Like he'd been pressing for a while but, she knew how it worked. Connections first, ability second. Whoever was being brought in, knew someone in the company. _But now, so do I._

It wasn't that she'd wanted to move up, job wise. Currently, it suited her best leaving her free to be Felicity Smoak; to be someone who couldn't be tempted to use any of the power she may be given.

It Technician. Invisible. She didn't want a promotion. Not yet.

Still, his trust in her… she wouldn't let it be wasted or tarnished.

But for now, she had matters to attend to.

Office work was easy; even IT techs had to do their part and hers was done and _done_. What wasn't done? Hunt. Somers.

 _I should have tagged China's motorcycle._ She flicked her spoon back into its holder a little bit harder than she usually would. _Rookie mistake._

Not knowing about China White's involvement had thrown her; Somers was now at home, calling up lawyers and the like, instead of doing exactly what she thought he would. Not that he'd need to; China could do it for him. She was using him, and he was letting her - their mutually beneficial _business_ agreement - which meant she might have access to his merchandise. But possibly not the tools to authorise distribution in a city where the majority handhold for the mafia, was the Russians.

And the Italians.

Second to the Yakuza, The Triad held only a symbolic sway in Starling, which was surprising considering the sheer power and influence of the organisation as opposed to the presence of more than 3 entwined mafia _families_ in the city. Factions like the Bertineli's and the Carta, were _not_ de facto societies embedded in government structure.

Except, in Starling, the mafia of any country and trade, had an unspoken and unofficial accord with the SCPD and the age-old adages. _You scratch my back, I don't riddle yours with bullet holes. You ignore this deal, I fill your wallet with cash. You exonerate this guy, and I_ don't _kill members of your family_.

Expecting a hung jury for Somers's incarceration was tantamount to thinking China White would dutifully hand over her power play. Luckily, Somers _didn't_ have a Judge in his back pocket. _He's just a greedy S.O.B._

And thankfully, with Nocenti, it _was_ possible to change the game. A court, one filled with news reporters, would crumble over under an eye-witness. Threatened members of any jury can be brought back towards the light, with the right focus, lawyer and the promise of protection. Police testament. An official investigation. And Somers wasn't Hunt, nor did he have a judge in his back pocket or a snake named Rob Stellart.

 _A trial may not even be necessary_ , she pondered as she left the kitchen for her desk. _Racketeering and drug smuggling don't always require a full criminal hearing_. With indisputable evidence, they could just throw Martin Somers in a cell and have done.

It wasn't until she returned to her desk, alternated a camera feed to her second monitor, that - much like the day before - Felicity's general equanimity was butchered.

Watching, across the street from the SCPD, Laurel Lance was stepping through the doors of the main entrance.

 _Why?_

She had all the evidence she needed - not that it would work with a bought judge - so what could she possibly…

Without taking her eyes off the screen, Felicity set down her cooling coffee and moved in; fingers on the keypad _. Rewind._ Play _. Nothing._ Hunt's trial wasn't scheduled until next week: it was too early to start negotiations. Miss Lance had either been mugged, was bringing her father lunch - she wasn't, unless her tiny shoulder bag had a label with 'Made in Narnia' engraved on it - or…

 _Oh, please tell me my gut is wrong_. It seldom was, but she had _no_ reason to immediately consider for even a moment that Laurel Lance was Victor Nocenti's contact. Somers, he'd said-

" _Who was your contact? It wasn't in the DA."_

-And he'd wanted the name. To his credit, Victor hadn't talked.

So, there was no reason to think that. None whatsoever.

 _Maybe her father called her down?_ Another battle of wills regarding Hunt's trial. It would make a lot more sense, _I favour the logic_. Besides. There was no way Detective Lance would put Nocenti in danger like that: like painting a neon sign on both the witnesses back and his daughter's.

Detective Quentin Lance. A gigantic hard ass. Didn't suffer any delusions about himself and knew there was something wrong with the 'system', but he still pushed. Still prodded. Still demanded. It was one of a list of reasons as to why his lieutenant had been happy keeping him wrapped up in the hunt for the Watchman. That, and he was a good cop.#

A good man.

She'd profiled the detective some months before. He was… exactly what the city could use, except that he didn't know that he was. Or that he could become too focused to the point of obsession. And he'd put blinders on. The force held corruption in its ranks; _admit it to yourself at least, Detective_. He believed that, deep down, all cops were the same as him. If she gave him a little push, he could go either way. He was a stickler for the rules and he'd never broken one. It would take a lot for him to start.

Maybe it wasn't the right time.

She thought about his daughter, about his partner…

Maybe.

Releasing exhale that faffed up her fringe, Felicity leaned back a tad. _I don't like this_. The not knowing. The possibility that she was wrong.

The likelihood that she was right.

Laurel Lance had already placed herself in the crosshairs of one dangerous Businessman, it wouldn't be a leap to think she'd do it again. To think she was capable. To be bold. To dare with her own life like this and bet on a favourable outcome with nothing to base it on, save her self-confidence.

 _I can't be in two places at once_. Felicity didn't scale tall buildings on a nightly basis for her own peace of mind. Mostly, she researched, or binge-watched Netflix. She wouldn't alter her routine just because a ballsy legal aid attorney wanted to play at being DA. She'd faltered: there were weeks at a time where she'd venture out nightly. And then she'd stop for a while. Take a breath. And then it would be once or twice a week.

But she couldn't jeopardise the moral integrity of Quentin Lance and what it might do to him if his daughter was hurt by staying out of it. By letting happen what she might be able to stop.

 _I already have cause to believe the SCPD has moles_. But in which division? Homicide? Internal Affairs? The abandoned Vigilante Task Force, the HTPU, Vice… one person or five people on the take? People, who would make sure that the involvement of Miss Lance's aid in a soon-to-be high-profile case, would get back to The Triad, back to Somers.

She had to be sure first. _Then_ , she could wonder about ambitious lawyers acting as official DA's. _Is Hunt the first high profile case she's gone after?_ Or just the first she was granted after CNRI's recent boon and sanctioned affiliation with the police department?

 _Why the hell did she say yes?_

And if Felicity glanced once or twice – three times, four – at her phone for that innocent green flash that signalled a text from _random_ people, then… then she was absolutely ridiculous, wasn't she?

* * *

 **SCPD**

Laurel peered into the translucent glass panel of the door labelled 'Interrogation Room 3'; as if able to see through translucent objects by the power of her will alone. "He's in there?"

It was the closest room to a marked exit, which was what her father had told her when he'd tried to _escort_ her into an unused room. She'd stopped him, demanding they get to the point-

"You're missing the point Laurel." Her father _pointed_ out to her and she caught him roughly scouring a hand over his own face, eyes briefly closing. "How the hell did you become Victor Nocenti's contact?"

She whirled back around, feeling that tension – the excitement – at another opportunity. "He told you?" It would make her his lawyer; his confidant, which meant she could just walk straight in there.

The statement would be as enticing as the act itself.

"Again," Detective Lance ground out; his dark eyes tapered in exasperation and she wanted to roll her own, "missing the _point_ , Laurel." _He's being ridiculous_. "I knew that ad in the paper was going to bring trouble." He muttered.

"It was good for the office."

"I don't care what method CNRI employs to boost a marketing campaign; just don't use my daughter's face to do it."

She sighed. "I really don't see the problem here."

"The problem," and his words were short, low, and to the point; out of fear of being overheard, "is that my daughter is taking cases above and beyond her port of experience-" he pressed on despite the twist of her lips and thin glare, " _no_ , I'm serious: I'm more afraid that it'll get you thrown in a river than I am about _this_ guy being shot to death in my own precinct."

She shook her head, confused. "What?"

He took a step back, caught a breath. "Oh Laurel. He worked for Somers."

 _You know I'm well aware of that._ "Yes, that's-"

"Who works for the Triad." He cut her off and she started. _The Triad?_ "Those are the guys who came in with last night's shipment at the docks. And the Triad pay off people to kill men like Victor. To kill his daughter. For all I know, there might already be someone in here just waiting to take the shot."

She immediately pounced on the information. "You mean, a cop?"

"Oh no." He shook his head. "No, you already have Hunt to deal with and now Somers." He held up a hand; a sure stop sign that made her itch to circumvent it. "Don't get a witch-hunt started, not in this building."

"Why, afraid of what I might dig up?"

He scoffed. "Come on…"

She lifted her chin. "I haven't started anything yet. But-"

He turned back to her; eyes narrowed, and she stopped. "Don't you understand the problem here? Really, what were you going to do to keep this guy safe, huh? What are you going to do to keep _yourself_ safe?"

"Well, he's safe _now,_ isn't he?" She asked, ignoring the sliver of apprehension he'd just caused because, she hadn't thought that far ahead. Not really. Nocenti had asked for help and she'd needed intel. She hadn't thought about who'd keep his daughter safe.

She hadn't thought an attempt on his life would be made.

"This is what happens with a Corporate case in Starling, Laurel. The head DA's, they go up against the worst of the worst and often, they fail because the rich have money and with money comes power. You work at CNRI. Not-"

"I heard you the first time you told me this. Remember last night?" Where he'd pinned onto her all his own fears and not one little piece of pride that she was trying to get justice. "I got the message." Steadfast, stubborn, she folded her arms and knew that no matter how hard she tried, staring down her father was pointless, but it didn't mean she wouldn't make her point. "But I'm not stopping, not because of a threat or two."

"A threat of two…" An incredulous, humourless chuckle left him as her father turned on the spot, his hands interlinking behind his head, as if needing a handhold. Frustrated.

She shifted, unable to see that on him. To know that she put it there, but he needed to understand, to _see_ her. "How did he escape anyway?" She asked, hidden from her father's sight; her eyes back to the door.

Her dad was silent for a moment. "Did you see the news this morning?"

"No." Ever since Ollie returned, they'd been blaring non-stop about the miracle of him living 5 years on an island, his kidnapping, his life-story and what he might be doing every second the camera rolled. "Couldn't stomach it much _before_ his return." Half of it was lies anyway. And the constant reminder that he'd gotten onto the boat with Sara… just, no.

"…Right."

"Why?"

He exhaled. "It looks like the Watchman was at the scene last night-"

She looked back so fast, she stunned him. "The _Watchman_?!"

The shadow of Starling, who'd had a genuinely ameliorating effect on her co-workers, who pursued the kind of crime most – even cops – were terrified of stepping into, who'd never been made official. At first, she'd wondered if such a phantom had even been real. Since then she'd heard small snippets from the people she represented - the parents and decent souls of the Glades who'd had their loved ones kept safe - and she'd been dying to learn more about him.

Whoever it was, the man had made justice a real possibility again. And, if there wasn't any to be found, he'd _made_ some. Wasn't that just mind blowing? Her father ahd once said that you don't have to go outside the law to get justice, but she'd seen enough to know that, maybe you sometimes have to.

Who was it? How did he do it?

Joanna, her friend at CNRI, had a picture that her brother had sent her, saved on her phone. On call one-night months ago, he'd managed to snap a shot of a black coat that flared almost like a cape and the shadow of a figure landing beside a car in front of a burning building.

 _Landing_.

In front of a burning building.

And he'd been carrying a child.

Joanna looked at it sometimes as a reminder that her brother wasn't alone out there. Laurel sneaked peeks whenever she needed to remember that the impossible could happen. Whenever someone let her down, the picture would come out. Whenever someone didn't pay for their crimes, she'd look at it and hope that they came across the path of the Watchman.

Her dad eyed her. "He said," he jerked his chin towards the room, "that he'd be dead if it hadn't been for that guy. _Apparently_ ," his brows arched in emphasis, "he even spoke to him."

Even more perfect.

"I want to talk to him." She told her father. _Bold as brass_ , that's what he used to say her, back when she was in College. _You be bold as brass and don't let anyone tell you how it's going to be_. _You make the rules._ She'd learned well. "To Victor." And-

And maybe find out a little more about the man in black.

"Look," her dad stepped into her personal space, "Lucas told me something. The Watchman, he's done _watching_ Laurel. I've never heard about him making someone a visit. He knows about the Hunt case and he isn't happy you're anywhere _near_ it. The fact that he'd even bring it up… Hilton didn't tell me when he spoke to him, but it has him spooked, let me tell you."

She faltered. "What?" _The Watchman brought me up in conversation?_

And her father clearly did _not_ like that. "He asked _specifically_ that you not be the one to handle the case for Adam hunt's incarceration; he said you're in danger and he wanted us to warn you off."

She swallowed… but inside her, something burrowed in. Two something's. The first, she understood; no man told her what was safe and what wasn't. The second, was something else. Something new. Enticing. Not only was The Watchman _real_ , he'd gotten into contact with her father's friend; coming out of the darkness – which he never did, that they know of – just to keep her safe.

 _Wow_. Yes, she wanted to meet him. Let him know, she wasn't the type to be quelled. You couldn't make a difference in Starling without stepping out into the open. The Watchman would know that better than most.

She could be trusted. She could do this.

"The Watchman was the one who found evidence to prosecute against Hunt." This kept getting better and better. "Hilton picked it up and gave it to Ellet, who went against protocol for some _unthinkable_ reason and handed it off to CNRI instead of the big wig's in the Supreme Court." This time a slither fear wormed its way into his features. "Why did you even accept the case?"

She drew herself up. "You don't think I can do it?"

"That isn't what this is about! I may not like this guy – vigilantism undermines _everything_ I stand for as an officer of the law – but I haven't been able to get squat on whom he might be or why he's even doing what he's doing. But he showed himself close-up, to my _partner_!" For a moment, Laurel felt it the same way her father did; he was fearful that this meant change. That it was the start of the Watchman taking bigger risks and maybe, becoming more prone to violence. Except all she could see, was a better Starling. _Let the Watchman do his thing. I say bring it on._ "And that means something to me. It means he's _unsatisfied_ \- the bogus way Lucas described it - like he can just _decide_ like that, that what we're doing isn't good enough and instead of feeling like this could be a great thing, something we can use to get this bastard, I'm terrified that it means _I_ should be watching my own daughter!"

He was taking this way too far. "You can't just-"

"At the docks, there are shell casings from last night. There's evidence of a fight that we know nothing about because both sides cleared their tracks before we got to the scene. They knew how to do that and let me tell you, I do _not_ like being second place at a crime scene. But there is one man in traction at the hospital and he's not talking. Whatever happened to him, I figure the Watchman got to him." He let out a long breath. "We have no idea what he's really capable of, except that he's dangerous and the idea that he's unhappy with this precinct, with Ellet, is not something I wanted to know. If he or Somers or Hunt finds out that you're still working both cases, it could mean a death sentence."

"You're overreacting." She shook her head, near-done with this conversation. "The Watchman doesn't kill people."

"That we know of!"

"Dad," she quietened, beseeching, "I think he's just trying to help." The city. The people in it…

"Help?" Her dad spat. "He challenges the _badge_!" Hands out, he slashed them through the air in emphasis. "You need to listen to me; rich people like Hunt and Somers, they can hire hitmen Laurel. You don't want to know just how easy that is for some of these guys. They don't pull the trigger, so they get away with it!" He pointed at her. "You, me, Lucas; the three of us are the only people in the building who know Nocenti is connected to Somers and that he tried to have him killed. If that gets out, we piss of people like the Triad and then what do we do? What am I supposed to _do_?!"

She flinched; he was getting to her. "Stop shouting at me!"

"Then listen to me, dammit; trust me!"

She gritted her teeth, galled by his hypocrisy. "Funny how your 'listen' sounds like 'do as I say'."

Hands shoved into his receding hairline, her wiry father looked about ready to snap. "I'm trying to protect you."

"Nothing has happened to me." He scoffed; his expression unchanging. "I'm being perfectly safe. Watching where I walk, where I park – I'm going to be fine."

"You think that's all it takes? Watching your own back? You know, I thought after what happened with Sara-"

She shut down. "I'm not here to listen to this." _That isn't fair_. He didn't get to bring up Sara. She had enough reminders with Ollie's return and she'd already told her ex where he could go. She secured her bag onto her shoulder, lips pursed. "Can I go in to see my client now?"

Gaging her, Quentin Lance's throat moved as he took a breath. "Has he paid you yet?"

"No."

"Has he signed a contract?"

She pursed her lips. "No."

"Then he's not your client." He growled.

Growled.

 _At me._

No one growled at her; not for any reason.

"Funny dad," eyes narrowed, her hand reached for the door handle, "I wasn't asking for permission. I was asking to make you feel like you were in charge, but since you're going to be like that…"

She'd driven her father apoplectic in the past, but it had been few and far between. "You are in a police precinct, you can't just-"

She pushed on through the door, ignoring her father and immediately rounding on the man sat behind the table, who looked tired. Afraid. In need.

 _I'm here_. "Mr Nocenti." She started, knowing full well her father had followed her in here but since she'd pushed him, she wasn't eager to try and force him leave. That was a fight she knew she'd loose. "I'm Laurel Lance; I spoke to you on the phone yesterday morning?"

"I know who you are." Grey hair, short beard; Victor had the appearance of a hard worker and though he was clearly scared, he also wasn't giving into his boss. _Good_. Brave. "I remember your voice. And your picture is in the paper."

She smiled. "As your legal advisor, I suggest you-"

"I shouldn't have called you."

She stopped. "I'm sorry?"

The look in his eyes almost made her sit down. They were the kind only a father could have. "Neither of us knew what we were doing." He shook his head. "I can't believe I was that stupid." He breathed, staring up at her. "If it hadn't been for the Watchman, I would have _died_ last night. And he told me not to speak to anyone except for Detective Lance."

Thrown, Laurel hazarded a glance at her father stood behind her. _He didn't mention that little piece of information._

And, by the hard look on his face, it wasn't because he'd been looking to trip her up. "Why would he do that?" He asked Nocenti, taking a step forwards.

Victor shrugged, hands spread. "I don't know. But I have a daughter. The man who saved my life told me to go to you. What you say goes."

Head tilted, her father stared at Victor but she stared at her father. It made sense: he was an honest cop, a good man. They should be working together, not apart. Maybe… maybe they should _all_ be-

"Alright." Arms unfolding, her dad gestured to her without looking at her face. "But I don't want my daughter representing you."

 _No…_

Feeling that old ire - the kind that had started to fill her up years ago when what she wanted to see in her father, didn't come to pass - when he'd side with her sister over her, when he wouldn't see that everything she was trying to do was to make him proud - she opened her mouth to protest; offended that he would go so far to undermine her like this, when Victor nodded.

Her mouth closed.

"Fine." He simply said.

 _Excuse me?_

Her father showed no remorse. Nothing at all that told her he understood that he'd just hurt her. He spoke of the vigilante undermining him when he'd just done the same to his own daughter. Didn't he understand what this meant to her?

She felt like she'd been smacked.

Rejection.

Lack of faith.

No respect.

They didn't believe in her.

 _Like you gave them any reason to_ , a voice in her head whispered back to her.

Eager to bring a bad man to court, she'd encouraged a father to walk to his death; she hadn't thought what might happen would _actually_ happen. He'd taken the steps, but she hadn't-

 _But, how could I?_ That kind of thing – drugs, smuggling, murder – it happened to other people, not to her. The victims she helped, they were the ones who felt it. Which was why she did what she did. Because they needed someone. And she could do it _without_ having to know what it was like, without having to be a victim. _I shouldn't have to be._ Empathy without sympathy.

She may never have been a victim of crime, but grief was a thing she knew. Betrayal.

In the court room, it meant she wouldn't be ruled by her emotions but for the first time, her father was blocking her from helping the innocent victims in the city. From exacting justice in a way that was safe at the same time as being right.

 _Maybe it's time to not be safe anymore…_

Laurel Lance walked out of the room the way she'd walked in; with her head held high.

And the very worst conclusion drawn.

Like her father had said, she'd missed the point.

* * *

 **Starling City General Hospital, 8:30pm**

Hospitals were the safety zone.

The beeping of the monitors, the general quiet, the odd hustle and bustle of the nurses and doctors; it has its own noise. Its own smell. An atmosphere in general; all designed to make a person feel safe as they lie in bed and wait to get better.

The security fop - the mercenary - knew he was a dead man.

Lying on his back, eyes wide open, he strained to listen to every abnormal sound; every click, swish and clop was a chamber being cocked, a body brushing by a curtain and a polished shoe on the floor outside his room.

Unable to sleep or eat, he knew that if he so much as twitched a lip to the cop who'd asked him those questions hours earlier, he'd be getting a visit from the Triad. There wasn't much he knew about the Chinese Mafia, or anything at all about drug smuggling. He was a gun for hire. He was promised money to be muscle; that was all. There were tonnes in the city; more than a dozen in the Glades alone that he knew by name.

Normally, if you were hurt on the job; you'd keep shut. Slip out of the hospital and report to the boss. Then you'd get paid. He'd done it before.

Regardless of how little he knew, he knew enough to know that the Triad didn't like lose ends of any kind. They didn't take chances. They wanted to set up shop in the Glades, and that couldn't happen with a wannabe cop, playing criminal hotshot.

And he was far from being a hotshot.

He'd applied to Starling SCPD years before and had been accepted. Two months in, he'd fallen into a web of lies, extortion and pay offs that he'd been on the take after his first official arrest as a beat cop. He'd quit a year later; _if I'm going to commit crime, I should commit crime. Be honest about it. No hiding behind a badge_.

Except there's nothing even a badge of the law can do against-

 _-Aa tug at the back of his coat and he hadn't been quick enough to say something to his boss - to the confusion on Mr Somers's face - before his body was heaved up, launched into the rafters of the warehouse. Lungs blocked by shock, he couldn't shout out at the height, at the darkness around him-_

 _His head cracked on a solid beam. Dazed, he barely felt the hands that caught him - his feet scrambling on a beam - and couldn't see much of anything as one of them forced his arm around, almost pulling the joint out of place. He would have yelled, but the other hand caught his mouth in a tight bind._

 _There was a dark shape crouched inches from him._

 _It didn't speak, didn't move a muscle._

 _Until suddenly he was airborne again, another tug on his jacket by whatever wire was caught there and the black mass continued moving: a foot thrown into his stomach and he was hurtling towards the ground, his index finger reflexively pulling on the trigger of the rifle he'd forgotten about and firing off a dozen rounds before-_

Darkness.

He'd dreamed of it just now; being surrounded by darkness, being moved about like a rag doll, having no control before – _lights out_.

He should have remained a cop. He'd have cop buddies right now if he did, but it was too many years ago and he wasn't smart enough to go through that again, to take exams and _try_ and worm back into the system. To be decemt.

Dread licked at his insides as he whispered. "I should have stayed a cop."

"That wasn't your first mistake."

Breath hissing in through his teeth, his heart knew before he did: the monitor beeped progressively faster, measuring his panic and he'd barely managed to look to his left towards the window where the voice came from, before a gloved hand - déjà vu - was pressed over his mouth.

Before a black mask was leaning over him. "Quiet."

 _That isn't normal._ The voice. The steady strength of the palm. _I can't even see his eyes_.

"You scream," it said, slow and steady, "or call for a nurse, or make _any_ noise beyond a polite whisper," in fact the voice coming from behind the facial partition was barely above a whisper too, but it was so civil that instead of it setting him at ease, the hum of whatever was making the voice sound that way, put him increasingly on edge and that was _without_ the hand cover his mouth, "I'll personally make sure the hit man who just entered the building, finds this room."

The panic – fear – in his eyes must have been clear because the black void, this- this _freak_ in a mask, spoke to him again. Slower than before. Smoother. "If you answer my question, if you do what I ask," the palm pressed him still, "you won't have to worry about being killed in your sleep."

He stared at the mask, baffled.

He _believed_ it.

And… well, it was one question.

Heart rate slowing, it was enough for the vigilante to lean back a tad - let up a little - and when the mask caught the dim light, it actually helped. It wasn't _void_ of features. It was sublime, smooth, symmetrical, weirdly _slinky_ ; but the inhuman aspect of it still twisted his stomach.

The hand left his mouth. It hung nearby; a loosely curled threat.

The mask straightened. "Where does Somers keep his wares?"

He didn't need to ask what the vigilante meant by wares. He cleared his throat. "I don't know." It was the truth, but the absolute stillness of the man stood over him made him babble on. "I'm just a gunman. I secure ops and I get paid. I don't know anything about nothing."

It took three excruciating seconds for the mask to respond with, "I believe you." _Thank God_.

But then the man in black shifted; head and face - though he couldn't see his eyes, he knew they'd been fixed on his the entire time because when he moved, it felt like gravity or something has lessened on his chest - lifting and tilting. Looking towards the exit. "Stay quiet."

He'd barley blinked before the mask was gone. _What the hell…?_

For several minutes, he lay in a kind of disbelieving stupor. The Watchman was real and there might be someone in the building who wanted to kill him-

The sounds of soft flesh hitting something much more solid, echoed into his room.

Heart rate climbing again, he struggled into a sitting position; his head throbbing in effort. Ears focusing. Eyes fixed on the open doorway.

A stifled pound of fists, a muffled shout, a body hitting a wall… then something being dragged across the floor.

 _Oh god_. He didn't even know what he was hoping to see at the moment.

But then the mask strolled back into the room, his body bent to accommodate the weight of the man he was pulling cleanly across the smooth linoleum by the back of a jacket. Whoever the body was, he was alive and cradling his knee; blood leaking from a lip.

The vigilante looked completely fine.

At the window nearest to his bed, the mask forced this 'assassin' into a seated position against the wall and the merc in the bed got a look at him.

50's, long hair - he could belong in a rock band – and… a Chinese man? _No_ , Korean? _The Triad sent a Korean?_

"He's cheap." The mask muttered, answering his silent question and making him jump. "A thug." He stepped closer, standing over his captive. "He'd probably asphyxiate you with your pillow. Quiet. _Long_ execution. Cheapest death. Low-priced hitman."

He said it all like it as numbers on a fax sheet, like it wasn't making the merc want to throw up.

"And he's going to tell me," the hum of whatever was making that voice sound like that, sent chills through him and the mask locked down on the face staring up at him; the thug's beady eyes drawn in pain, "what I want to know."

The cheap hitman hissed a breath through clenched teeth; blood and spittle bubbling out. But he didn't talk.

"Does China White know the identity of Victor Nocenti's contact?" The mask asked.

The man on the floor grit down further. "Fuck you."

"China White doesn't appreciate failure." The mask tilted, observing the way the hurt man seemed to curl in on himself. "You know that. She won't forget you exist, whether you talk or not."

"I-" A wave of pain shut the man up for a moment. "I 'ain't telling you shit."

"You're already looking at me; you don't have to say a word." _What?_

That was odd.

The mask lifted a hand, bringing it up to his eyes and _did_ something to the side of his face, where the mask changed. And he had no idea what it was, but the shiny black sheaths separating his eyes from the rest of the world, slid up.

But it was too dark to glimpse colour.

The mask stared down at the man for a few seconds. "China White."

The man on the floor swallowed, his forehead furrowing.

"China White." The mask repeated, bizarrely; in the same tone. "Victor-" he paused, head slanting again. "Thank you."

 _Ok, what the-_

A leg lifted, foot shooting out and planting the thug's head back into the wall behind him. Lights out indeed.

Then the mask turned to him. _Oh no-_

"Do you have a pen?"

"Uh…"

* * *

 **20 minutes later, same Hospital room**

Detective Lance looked down at the unconscious criminal, listening to the idiot in the bed as his eyes stared at the note sat in the unconscious man's lap.

The note signed, 'For Detective Lance'.

"…then he just asked for a pen," the idiot criminal blathered, "and went and took one from the nurse's station." The staff were on call and the few around, had been conveniently on break. "He wrote that. Told me to ask for you and only you."

And _that_ \- what the hell was that about? Why was the vigilante focusing on him suddenly? Why had he even spoken to Hilton before now? Why the interest in his daughter's professional life?

Add to that, the vigilante had the audacity to tell him how to do his job.

' _For Detective Lance',_ the note read, _'he tried to kill the gun for hire. Victor Nocenti has a daughter. You know what happens next.'_

Yeah, he knew. They'll send someone to take her hostage; make Victor bend, make him lie on the stand. They'll probably kill her. _I already know_. But he had to keep this quiet. He was pretty sure that no one in his department held any tie to Somers or the mafia…

He did _not_ like that the vigilante was right. And he'd get him, eventually. "Did he say anything to you?" He asked the moron in the bed. "Do anything odd?" _Give me something new to work with, please._

"Uh, no; he just asked about Somers." He swallowed. "If I talk, can I get police protection?"

Years ago, Quentin would have thrown him in the lion's den, just for asking that kind of question. By now, he knew he had no choice. Criminals tattling on criminals. And for that, the guy would get a kind sentence. _As if he deserves it_. Accessory to commit murder. _He isn't an innocent bystander; he stood there, watching as Somers had Nocenti on his knees, ready to be killed._ "Fine. Tell me."

"He asked about where Somers might be keep the drugs. I didn't know; I'm hired to stand guard, not help with internals."

"Some job you did." And if Quentin wrought an ounce of pleasure from the embarrassment on the guys face, he wouldn't hide it. "What else?"

"He knew The Triad would send someone after me." Of course; Somers was exactly how he looked; a rich businessman but _young_ criminal. He wouldn't be the one to send the hit. "After the mask caught him, he dragged him in here and asked whether someone called China White knew the identity of Nocenti's contact."

All at once, his stomach knotted and his heart started to pound. _No, not my daughter_. "And?!"

Thrown by his shout, the Mer licked his lips. "H-he didn't tell him. He was in a lot of pain."

Not helpful. _Jesus Christ_. Did they know? Was Laurel about to be-

"But, the freak in the mask- he ah… he did something weird when he didn't tell him."

"What did he do?" After several seconds of nothing Quentin barked, " _What?_!"

The man swallowed. "Well, he just… _looked_ at him. And he said, 'China White'. Then he said it again and it was like he heard something I didn't because he stopped, said thank you and then kicked the guy's face in."

Squinting at the guy, Detective Lance had no idea what to do with that.

"It was kind of spooky, man. I mean, the whole time he was looking at me, I thought I could feel it, you know? Feel him looking at me."

And where Quentin wanted to scoff, wanted to laugh at the childish fear in the man's voice, he couldn't… because he'd heard something like this once before, only he'd dismissed it then. He couldn't now.

It didn't stop the sharp acerbity in his tone however when he asked, "what, you think he's psychic?"

"I don't know!" The tang of _Boston_ rang in that accent. "All I'm saying is that, he isn't normal."

 _Don't I know it._

He'd been trying to catch this guy for over a year, before he was put back in Homicide mid-March. They'd gotten nowhere, and good men had been pulled off cases that needed attention. But he still felt bitter about it. Another criminal he couldn't bring in.

A criminal who bags criminals.

What was worse, was that he didn't really hate him for undermining the law – _which he does, all the goddamn time_ – nor did he hate him because he was a criminal who knew more than the police did at times, but didn't share his knowledge.

He hated the _reminder_.

After more than 20 years of being a cop, he'd slowly watched as Starling fell into the kind of corruption he didn't know how to fight or halt the progress of. The SCPD weren't getting the job done. Loose ends, faulty evidence, bought juries, lack of staff or funds in the force, corrupt judges and a crime wave that seemed to just _never_ end…

The vigilante added to that: it was lawless behaviour. It had to be stopped. _He_ had to be stopped.

And yet, sometimes he wondered if-

When his mobile rang, he shook himself off that particular precipice and brought it up to his ear. "What?"

" _Hello to you too."_ Lucas candidly said. _"It's Adam Hunt. You aren't going to believe this: he said a man in a green hood just attacked him, with a bow and arrow."_

His brows lifted. "Come again?"

" _It's exactly as it sounds. This should be interesting."_

"Yeah," he breathed, "no kidding." It was the night for it. "'A man in a green hood'. We'll put an APB out on Robin Hood, first thing."

" _Oliver Queen was right."_

"Che. For now, but I wouldn't put stock into this just because two rich guys said they saw the weirdo."

" _Where are you anyway?"_

"Er," shooting the idiot now snoozing in the bed a glare, he came out with, "You know how there's talk about the Vigilante being at the docks the other night?"

" _Yeah?"_

"Turns out he really was there. The guy in the hospital? He just fessed up in exchange for police protection after some _other_ guy tried to kill him."

" _You're not kidding. Back up a second…"_

"I know what you're going to say." He exhaled. "The vigilante saved his life and… look, we need to put some guys on Laurel."

" _Why?"_

He turned towards the same window the vigilante probably left through; no point dusting for prints. The man was methodical, and Quentin had done this - had searched for clues - a hundred times before. "If Somers finds out that Victor contacted her-"

" _Relax, she isn't his lawyer; you made sure of that. And if they find out about her, it's only because we open out big mouths."_

His breath fogged up the glass as he stared into the night. "Yeah." What must it be like, leaving out of windows instead of walking through doors?

Feeling like you had to, because-

He shook it off. Shook off the fact that he may have wondered what this… _Watchman_ might be feeling, thinking, a lot over the past 18 months. Behind the mask, he was a person. And he was trying. He was succeeding.

 _And he's a criminal so, enough_. "I think he's just getting started Lucas."

" _You mean, The Watchman?"_

"When has he made contact like this before? Something's going on his head."

" _And the last 2 years, that's been what; foreplay?"_

"Maybe."

There was a moment of silence. _"We've been off the manhunt for months and we finally got some work done. Let's not go stirring up trouble until it finds us, ok?"_

It was the same tone he'd used before on Quentin, so he knew that Lucas was getting worried about him. About his ability to grow obsessions like weeds grow in gardens.

 _But I'm right, I know it_. "Where's Hunt now?"

" _He's at his office. Doesn't feel safe without his security detail."_

"Where was he attacked?"

" _In an underground parking garage; his car's being towed but he'd already got his lawyer in by the time the pickup arrived. We can't look at it for evidence now."_

Disbelief made him sneer. "So, he wants our help, but he doesn't want us to know anything?"

" _Pretty much."_

He nodded at himself. "I want to talk to him."

" _Figured you might."_

"Can you send someone you trust up here to secure this-" he corrected, " _these_ creeps?"

" _Sure."_

Mobile shut, he turned to leave; praying to god that this was all one big joke on his life. _As if I ever been so lucky._

…If Quentin Lance had stepped closer to the window, if he'd leaned in and looked into the shadowed area outside, he might have seen her.

Perched in the nook between wall and window – her hand a claw against the brick – Felicity had heard every word.

And was… confused.

 _What is this?_

Concerned.

 _A man in a green hood._

Starling never ceased to astound, but this felt different. Hunt had been approached by a man who'd deliberately covered his face, who'd threatened him with a genuine bow and arrow and it had been intimidating enough that the same businessman who was currently facing a criminal trial, was now requesting police protection.

It could mean a number of things. Or just one thing. Maybe nothing.

She didn't know.

It was intolerable. She hadn't heard word on the streets, hadn't picked up anything on her feeds, her broadcasts, her infiltrator software… how could this person just show up? What did he think he was doing?

She was in the dark.

She didn't like being in the dark. It went against the grain.

Thinking _that_ , went against the grain. She _lived_ in the dark places. Sometimes. But And the light could hide more than a shadow could. She saw that more than anyone. Where before, she thought she could leave this to the cops – an errant man or woman, looking for a little payback – she realised it may yield more of the same.

They'd been trying to catch her for years after all.

 _Leave it be_. There was still a chance this was nothing. Let the police take things from here… and if this person was legit, if they had a reasonable cause, if they were something more than the average spirit of vengeance or good Samaritan, then she'd get stuck in. For now, she'd listen.

She'd watch.

* * *

 **11:25pm, Foundry**

" _You're going to transfer $40 million in Starling City bank account 1141 by 10pm tomorrow night."_

 _Wide eyed, anger made Hunt spit. "Or what?" But he saw the fear there too. The surprise at seeing a man in green leather, take out his guards and aim an arrow at his face._

 _It worked. "Or I'm going to take it," he leaned in; his hood hiding his eyes, "and you won't like how."_

 _It would work._

Deeps breaths expanded his chest, making the memory exceptionally clear. He'd always had a vivid memory. He'd learned over the years to make it more so and he used it now to replay every second of his encounter with the first name on the list, which was how he knew what would happen next.

Adam Hunt wasn't going to do as he'd asked.

 _Fine_. He hadn't expected him to.

He hadn't _wanted_ him to. And now, it was going exactly as planned.

He needed to make an example to the other people on the list. He needed them to know that he wasn't some street thug, looking for revenge. He wasn't some random citizen who'd had enough with the way the city was being run or someone who thought violence was the only way.

He had means. He had the will. He was capable of carrying out every threat, intent and promise.

And he was coming for them.

It was premeditated. All of it. And he knew that there was only so much these men and women could communicate to the police with their closet full of skeletons and shadows. In large part, they couldn't risk their money, their affluence, and their empires on inviting the law into their houses. They _had_ to pay attention to him. They had to listen… or he'd ruin them.

He'd do what his father had wanted to do himself.

Eradicating the city of infection required a surgeon. It would take time. _Time is all I have._

Time and lies.

Still, getting started - having a purpose - had made the last 72 excruciating hours, slightly less so. The pain at seeing his family again, at knowing he could never show them - they could never know - who he'd become, was nothing compared to the duty of honouring his father's memory. He could take it.

He didn't have an endgame. He'd continue until it killed him. It probably would.

Except-

" _No one really knows anything about it. Him. They say he showed up a year or so ago, started hitting crime where it hurts."_

-How was there a vigilante in his city? _Why?_

It wasn't part of the plan.

He needed… intelligence.

He could do research. He could-

 _"I've only lived in Starling for about two and half years. But I did some research. Research is something I do a lot of…"_

-He could ask… a friend.

Would it be pushing it?

A harmless question or two, to the woman he hadn't expected. Who'd given him a quiet place to just be for a while. A stranger who he'd been more open, if not remotely honest with, in years; not just since his return to the city. He'd talked to Anatoly, to Tatsu, but this was different. _She_ was different.

She'd made him feel like there was nothing to hide.

It was dangerous: there was everything to hide. More than once, he'd had to check himself.

 _I shouldn't contact her_. Though he had her number on the burner phone she'd given to him. He'd checked it out: it was legit and outrageously enigmatic, down to the specifics. Untraceable. It begged questions. The fact that there was a dormant GPS on it… he couldn't do anything about that, beyond removing it and that might damage the phone, but it hadn't occurred to him to be bothered by that. It should have. But it hadn't.

" _My mouth kind of runs away with me." She whispered, dropping her hand, still somewhat insecure._

It hadn't.

It was dangerous.

He'd find some other way to get the answers he needed.

Another deep breath and he uncurled from the rafter up ahead – finished with his upper-body lifts - before silently dropping down to the floor.

Straightening, Oliver looked about him; feeling the cool air against his warm chest. He'd done a lot in 12 hours. He hadn't finished but there was a space he could work in now and any further alterations he could use as part of his physical regimen. A bench, tools, two tables, chairs, his trunk… he had the means to start. So, he had.

Adam Hunt hadn't known what hit him. _And neither will Warren Patel. Jason Brodeur. Or any of the others_.

In beginning here - in the dark, dank, steam filled Foundry; the basement of a factory that once held a lot of hope - it felt like providence. The very factory his father had shut down, the factory that had helped the Glades fall farther, was the same place he'd set up.

But he couldn't technically do a thing without raising alarms, until he'd been officially declared a living, breathing member of the Queen family. He couldn't move about the city without worrying his family - without them having him watched or followed - until he made an appearance at his welcome home party, which would be-

He checked his phone, sighing.

Tomorrow night. 8pm.

The party was practically next door to Hunt International: Tommy had given him 4 options for a locale and, miraculously, one of them had been the perfect cover.

It was the start of a clock.

It was Tommy thinking he'd gotten his partner in crime back. It was his mother just waiting for him to ask for the keys to the kingdom. It was his sister, hoping he'd share with her his memories. It was Laurel who'd looked at him with the kind of bitterness that had clearly been simmering beneath the surface, Laurel who'd wanted him to give her something he didn't know how to give. A way to make it all better. It was the city, affirming the return of the billionaire playboy.

It was himself, pretending he hadn't died in the South China Sea.

It was taking the hood and the bow, honouring what had died, and he couldn't _wait_ to get started.

For now, he had to get back to the mansion. He'd pushed it; _mom will be worried_. She'd get used to her selfish son disappearing on her soon enough. But for now, he could at least be there for breakfast.

For one more morning.

After all, Hunt's version of targeting his opposition - Laurel - was to charge for a change of venue. Debilitating in the court of law for any lawyer, but hardly a threat on her person. He had tomorrow to pretend.

* * *

 **CNRI, 9:35AM**

"It'll be super sad if you say that you're working tonight."

Focus broken, Laurel glanced up from her desk at Tommy. "What?"

He lifted a finger in point. "I have it on good authority," he gestured to Joanna, who sent her a _told you so_ smile as she left to pick up her binder, _thanks a lot_ , "that you get off work at 5 and the party isn't till 7." Bracing against her desk, he leant forwards, smiling. Hoping. "I want you to come."

 _He'll ask you to go, you know he will_. Joanna had reminded her, the day before, that Oliver Queen's return did in no way, dampen the obvious thrill Tommy Merlyn continued to feel in seeking her out. It was a game, she knew that. But it was one she'd stopped enjoying a while ago. "No offense Tommy," she exhaled as she stood, locking eyes with him, "but Oliver Queen's welcome home bash is hardly my idea of a fun night out."

She'd rather have dinner with her mother.

But Tommy smiled like he knew she'd say that, except he then grew sombre. Serious in a way she wasn't used to seeing on him. "Listen, I ah…" tentative, he gave her such a soft look that her mind immediately (unwelcomingly) flashed to a little over a year ago, with him looking down at her in bed and offering to make omelettes. "I know it's not ideal." And he looked so nervous. "I know he hurt you. But he was lost at sea-"

He lost her with the 'but'. He was here for Oliver's sake. Not hers. And any apology or excuse ending in a caveat, wasn't one. "Thanks Tommy," by her tone and the way he winced at it, she wasn't grateful at all, "but I'd prefer to pretend that the years of Oliver and me, didn't exist."

Or the year of her and Tommy. _What had I been thinking?_

Three years after Ollie and Sara were declared shipwrecked, Laurel and Tommy had slept together. They'd been lonely and weak and punishing themselves for what they couldn't change. And it had been so natural, falling into bed with Tommy Merlyn, it had almost been like… falling into bed with Ollie.

And she had no explanation for what happened next because it was only supposed to be once. Just one accident, one very human mistake. But once became twice and an accident became a pattern, one she'd looked forward to. No strings. Just honesty. She hated that she had, but he'd understood her. The only one who really did, and the connection was attractive.

She'd never considered Tommy that way until then.

She couldn't deny that he was good at it, at making her feel special. Even during sex and she'd needed that. To feel like she was his dream girl, knowing that it was just his way if saying 'thank you for the fuck'.

That's all they'd been. Fuck buddies. Secret bootie calls. _Never again._

It wasn't like her. To give in like that. To have a one-night stand that started a rinse-repeat course that lasted almost a year.

Last year, she'd put a stop to them screwing around for nothing more than a few moments of escape, _no thank you_. It wasn't how she'd wanted to live - she'd wanted more than to be seen as a hook-up - and she knew his ways. She knew that he liked to go to a bar, pick up a girl and take it from there. _I'm not that girl_. But it's all they'd ever be, and she refused to be a long-lasting notch on what she hazarded was a very wide bed post.

 _Very_ wide.

Hers was not.

She wouldn't widen it, and after a time, she hadn't needed it anymore, what with finishing her final year at Law School. Having that focus. The sex became a distraction. She had justice. She had the law on her side. Sex could wait.

She'd opted for the less conventional option there too: complete an additional 3 years internship under an official DA whilst completing the programme _or_ gain her certificate almost immediately _without_ it and hope to find a position somewhere that didn't demand her to have the usual requisite 3 years of experience post Law School.

She'd already known when she'd decided this, that CNRI were desperate for staff. That they made concessions. It allowed her to stay in the city where she grew up and, in less than two years, no one would question her lack of experience.

"I get that." Tommy said, hedging for caution - she knew - as she moved past him towards the filing cabinets. Done with this conversation. "But Laurel-"

 _No_. Again, she cut him off. "Don't tell me that he's changed." She didn't want to hear it: Oliver and come back exactly the way he'd left. Mr hotshot. The prodigal son. Handsome and alluring and everyone wishing him the best. Where were the people who saw him as the man who'd gotten her sister killed? The adulterer. Turning back to Tommy, her voice was quite calm considering. "Don't tell me that he's sorry." She already knew that he was sorry. It would never be enough. "He slept with my sister, Tommy."

Hands raised out - a placation - Tommy offered, "I really wasn't going to."

"Wait," her eyes narrowed at him, arms folding over her chest, "did he send you here?"

Did Oliver send Tommy, thinking there was still a chance for them? Did he want to be friends or something just as ridiculous?

Did… did he want to make it up to her? Did he think he could? How would he do that?

" _What?_ No," adamantly shaking his head, Tommy's natural boyish charm made it so that she _had_ to listen to him, _damn him_ , "he wouldn't, and I wouldn't."

"Good." She nodded, turning away once more-

"It's been 12 years, Laurel." She froze. "12 years since we all became friends." And for a moment, she was locked in time too. Remembering. Missing the simplicity of what they used to be to one another, when all that mattered was Oliver's smile and her dreams. When she hadn't known he could cheat on her. She pretended she didn't, but she'd venture there when she was alone, when she had nothing to focus on. "There's 12 years of history between the three of us, of memories." And he sounded sad for each one. "We can't just let the past _die_ like this."

He missed it too.

More than that, he wanted her and Oliver to part amicably. To give Oliver something to smile about. _As if he deserved it_. And yet…

Everything that had ever happened between them, it _had_ to mean something in the now. They hadn't lived through that for it all to have no meaning, she refused to think that. She'd fallen in love. He'd loved her back. His friend liked her too. She liked him. They were – all three of them – entrapped in each other. They'd always be entrapped in each other.

She'd always have Ollie's past, even as he'd thrown it all away. She'd always be the best thing in his life. She'd seen it in his face, the other day. Regret. Care. No mattered what happened, she would always have a piece of him that other women couldn't touch, and she deserved to have that after what he'd put her through.

Had the island reminded him of that? Would he even try to make up for what she'd lost? She no longer had a sister because-

Why did he do it? They were happy, why did he need to cheat? And it could have been any woman, it hadn't needed to be Sara.

She had questions and no answers.

She didn't know what to do. All she knew was that she was unsettled, and she didn't like being unsettled.

Turning, hesitating, she looked at Tommy. Chewing on the inside of her cheek. Looking uncomfortable with his truths. Unsure.

He saw it, stepping closer. "You owe it to yourself to see if there's anything that can be salvaged. _If_ you want there to be." He added, smiling. "You don't even have to stay long. Just one drink." He took a breath and it looked odd on him. Like he was waiting for something. "See if there's still something there."

"Between me and Ollie?" She shook her head, eyes darting away. "There's nothing. I don't… I don't want to…"

She didn't want to… what?

"Just talk to him, Laurel." Tommy suggested, and it was a suggestion. He knew hr well enough to know anything else wouldn't be taken well. "I mean, you were friends before you dated, right?"

So, they should be able to talk. Put the ghost to rest.

Or maybe… get some answers. Or something. _I think_. "I'll think about it." She gave him, faking indifference as she elbowed shut the cabinet drawer. "Now if you don't mind, I've got work to do." She said, moving around him and back towards her desk.

"Say no more!" His hands clapped together, turning with her. "I have last minute party details to wrap up." Gesturing to the two women as he neared them, he affected a look of pain. "How do you people get up so early in the morning?"

Laurel shot him another pointed look. "Goodbye Tommy."

He grinned. Beamed. And, yeah… she wasn't immune. "Bye." And he actually waved 'bye' as he strolled out the door.

 _Cute._

She heard Joanna before she saw her. "He's got it bad."

Sighing, she glanced up through her hair. "Joanna…" _Please_.

"I'm just saying." Joanna was, for lack of a better word, gorgeous. Dark skinned brunette, she knew her own mind and she was just as smart, if not smarter, than Laurel. "Though I'm not sure why he'd be trying to make you talk to the ex…" she left that open ended as she sat across from her friend.

As she sent her a look of her own.

Ignoring it, Laurel clenched her jaw, took in a breath, turned towards her computer screen and started her day. There was work to be done. Justice to be made.

 _Don't think about it_.

* * *

Outside of CNRI, Tommy winced; _yup. I'm going to hell_.

He'd wanted her to be indifferent.

 _I mean, I knew that she wouldn't be_ … but he'd still hoped.

Her anger was very much part of the person she'd become - _a very fine figure of a person if I do say so myself_ \- and he knew that Oliver was at the root of that. The opposite of love however, wasn't hatred. Or anger. Or passionate spite.

It was indifference.

Laurel wasn't indifferent, not if the expression on her face was anything to go by; not by a long shot. She hated ollie… but she hated him because he'd hurt her, not because he was a horrible human being. Maybe it wasn't love, but it was definitely something. She wanted answers.

And he'd hoped she didn't. He'd hoped she'd smile at him and wonder. She hadn't.

His index finger and thumb pinched the bridge of his nose. _Bad Tommy_. It hadn't been about trying to get her to declare her undying apathy towards Ollie. He wanted the three of them to be equals. To be able to talk. To know where they stood. He needed it.

But how could he do that to Oliver?

 _Sorry buddy_. Instead, he'd found himself hoping she'd show just how much she'd moved past his best friend, whilst knowing Oliver still felt for her. After all this time. Five years. And Oliver still held a torch. _Bad, bad best friend_.

He was screwed. And he deserved punishment- not the kind he usually opted for either.

But. There was still; time. And Oliver needed a party. He'd give him one; the best party ever. _Yeah…_

But he didn't see the figure across the street. Didn't see a man taking pictures of the building.

Of the brunette Tommy Merlyn was in love with.


End file.
